Myopia
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Sally Donovan wakes trapped inside a small room, alone apart from the person she least wants to see – Sherlock Holmes. Whoever's put her there certainly has something in store for both of them, and the big question is whether they can pull together and get out alive. Established Sherlock/John throughout.
1. The First Room

**Warnings: Established Sherlock/John, some swearing.**

**Set in-between series one and series two.**

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**The First Room**

Sally woke with the kind of throbbing in her temples she'd had only once before, when she'd walked into an opening door and hit her head.

It wasn't like a hangover, and it wasn't like waking up from a fever or nightmare. It was just a horrible, sticky, disorientating thing, and she didn't mind admitting it scared her a little. The thought of what might have happened to her whilst she was unconscious was a weight tugging at the back of her mind.

She just lay there for a few seconds with her eyes closed, and tried to piece together the information. She'd been on her way out of her flat, and the cab she'd got into had seemed innocent enough. Perhaps not.

She shuddered a little, and wondered if anything had happened. It didn't feel like it – she wasn't hurt, apart from the pounding in her head. Her clothing felt intact and in place, which was a relief. In fact, all she could tell was that when she'd got in the cab someone had cracked her over the head with something blunt and now she was here.

Where 'here' was she was unable to determine without actually opening her eyes, so she did so reluctantly. They were slightly gluey and sore and she rubbed at them, sitting up. Everything was blurred out of focus and she scrubbed a hand over them again, blinking.

It didn't go away. And it didn't feel like part of the concussion. Her heart, already pounding, picked up speed, and hastily she put a finger up to her eye and touched it, pushing down with the tip.

Her contact lenses weren't there.

Even disorientated and with a headache she could tell – she'd been wearing them since she was sixteen, and she knew whether they were there or not. Had it fallen out when she was hit? She touched the other eye and found the situation exactly the same, and the chances of both coming out by accident were about one in a million.

What kind of person knew she wore contacts and deliberately went to the trouble of removing them? She was pretty much blind without them, unable to see clearly past thirty centimetres in front of her face, so she squinted, looking around for something, anything.

The room she was in was large, about the size of an average classroom, and made of wood that smelled damp and old. It was lit by a single blurred glow set into the wall, which she assumed was a light bulb; it was hard to tell. She pressed her eyes into slits, hoping to chase some of the blurriness away from her vision, but it wasn't very helpful; the place seemed devoid of pretty much anything.

She turned around, and saw something against the far wall, a large shapeless black mass, but she couldn't tell much in this state, so she made her way towards it.

As she drew closer she could see it breathing, which meant it was another person – she doubted an animal – and they didn't seem to be moving much. Perhaps, she thought, they were just asleep, and this whole thing was some sort of test. Her thoughts were leaping erratically round in a way that foreshadowed panic, but for now she was fairly calm.

"Hello?" she said, croaking out the words – she was thirsty. "Hello, are you alright?"

There was no reply, so she grasped the person and turned them towards her, lowering her head and squinting.

Sherlock Holmes. She leapt back slightly in surprise, snagging her sleeve on his coat buttons and tearing some of the threads loose. She was sure it was him; his features were fairly unmistakable. But what was the freak doing here?

_He's a prisoner, like you_ her brain told her rather snappily; she supposed it was as annoyed as her to be stuck in a room with only an unconscious freak for company.

Well, hopefully she could wake him up; his super-brain could be useful here, although she wasn't looking forward to his ego being set loose. She shook his shoulders and called out loudly, but produced no results – he flopped limply in her arms like a badly stuffed toy, his hair falling in his face. She frowned and slapped his cheek, perhaps a little harder than should have been necessary. There were no obvious wounds on his head, whereas, if she put a hand to her own, there was a lump on the back.

It felt strange, touching him. She didn't like it, but she also didn't want him to die on her.

It occurred to her there was only one thing that could have effects like this – he'd been drugged, and pretty heavily by the looks of it. She supposed whoever had done it had thought a head wound wouldn't have been enough to tame him, and if they knew his history with drugs they would have administered a higher dose than they would have on someone else; whatever it was, it was strong.

She didn't know how long she'd been here, and there weren't any windows, but her back wasn't too stiff and her thirst only mild, meaning it couldn't have been more than one or two hours. Sherlock didn't look like he was waking up any time soon, so she rolled him into the recovery position and sat with her back against the wall, fuming.

Who on earth did this kind of thing? She might have said the freak at first, but he was here with her, and she didn't think even he'd be able to fake being quiet for so long when he could make snide remarks at her. There was the matter of hostages and ransoms and the things she had to deal with sometimes, but she wasn't worth anything. Sherlock, perhaps, could be a bargaining chip for someone – even she had to admit that brain was useful sometimes – but she was just a sergeant, unmarried, and generally just getting on with life.

The thought crossed her mind it might actually be a test – some kind of team-building get-pally-with-Sherlock thing Lestrade had arranged, but she doubted he would have sanctioned concussion and drugs. Besides, if he thought bunging her in an empty room with Sherlock Holmes and no contact lenses was going to improve team spirit he was sadly mistaken – it was more likely to end in bloodshed.

She got up and walked around the room, looking for anything that might give her a clue as to where she was, but the room seemed bare apart from the light on the wall, so she sat back down again. The loss of contact lenses was bothering her the most – not only did it leave her uncertain of everything around her, it also meant whoever had done this knew her, had been watching her. And it also meant they had something in store for her.

Just as she was beginning to doze Sherlock moved and groaned, twisting his legs into his stomach slightly. She leapt to attention, squinting to see if he was properly awake – it was hard to tell, with everything so fuzzy. Slowly she reached out and prodded his shoulder, willing him to wake up and do something, but he flopped back down again without a word.

This annoyed her; it seemed like he was being lazy just to irritate her, so she seized his shoulders and shook them angrily.

"Come on dickhead, wake up."

He stirred again, trying to move and falling back down again with a noise that sounded more like 'bluh' than an actual word.

"I said wake up!"

Sherlock rolled over, dragging her with him – he was stronger than that skinny frame showed – and she struggled as his whole weight came to rest on her legs, biting her lip to stop herself shouting and showing weakness as her ankles and knees creaked.

"Mornin' John," he muttered, and before she could register that yes, the detective and the doctor definitely were sleeping together and Lestrade owed her five quid, he was kissing her.

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**Thanks for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism welcome.**

**To be continued.**


	2. The First Argument

**AN: My medical knowledge is extremely limited.**

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Right on the mouth – she reacted without thinking, pushing him away and poking him in the eye in the process, wanting only to get away because she was kissing the freak and he wasn't very gentle about it and no it was just wrong she didn't want that, definitely not.

"Get off me you freak!"

He rolled over and hit the wall, wide-eyed, at least as far as she could tell, and breathing heavily. "Donovan!"

"Yes," she said, wiping a hand across her mouth and spitting. He tasted horrible. "Not John." Her tongue felt strange, as if she'd just been eating something she shouldn't; the freak had actually kissed her.

To be fair he looked about as horrified as she did, pulling a grimace worthy of a bad soap opera and rubbing a fist across his teeth. "What are you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Deduce it, alright? We're stuck."

He turned his head this way and that, still scrubbing at his mouth. There was no need to overdo it, she thought huffily; she'd been chewing gum before she'd got in the cab, and he was going to cut his lips if he rubbed at them any more.

"We're in an abandoned building," he said, spitting and wrinkling his nose. "Most likely somewhere outside of London. It's old…do you have any mints?"

She glowered, simmering angrily. "If I did I wouldn't give you any."

He seemed to accept the fact and went back to rubbing his mouth – he was hard to read at the best of times, even when she could see him properly, but now he seemed anxious, twitching every now and then and grimacing. What the hell had they actually given him?

"How did you get here?" he said eventually, frowning. "Tell me everything."

She did, hesitating for a second around the subject of her contacts, but in the end deciding to tell him – he'd probably work it out sooner or later, and he was going to need everything to help work out where they were and who had them. Once she knew that she could help, but for now she knew she had to rely on him. Her insides boiled slightly at the thought, but she was tired and thirsty and the prospect of going home to a cup of tea seemed much closer when he was there. He didn't mock her about having bad vision, much to her surprise, only remarking on what she'd already worked out – that whoever it was must have known her, or been watching.

"What about you?" she said, unable to resist jabbing at him, more out of relief than anything else; she didn't dare admit, even to herself, that for a little while, she'd been afraid he wouldn't wake up. The freak was never still around her, and seeing him so had scared her, just a tiny bit. "How'd the great detective end up stuck here?"

He glared at her, running his tongue over his teeth in a way that continued to irritate her. "I got a text from someone I thought was Lestrade telling me he had a case, stepped out of the flat and someone grabbed me before I could do anything." He carried on before she could comment. "This suggests the attackers were in two different groups, with different methods. We were taken at the same time."

He trailed off, balancing his chin on his hands and staring straight through her in an unnerving way. She poked him with her foot.

"Oi! How are we going to get out of this?"

His head snapped up and he glared at her. "Oh, use your tiny brain for once."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, trying to count to ten. She got lost around five and snapped back, unable to stop. "I've tried – for two or three hours whilst you were just lazing about on the floor."

He opened his mouth in protest. "Lazing about on the floor? How about we give you a good dose of propofol and see how _you_ hold up?"

She knew she'd been unreasonable with the last point, but hell if she was going to admit it. "Well you're the genius! As you're so fond of telling us all the time, you're the cleverest man I know. So get us out, I have work in a few hours."

She meant it as a joke, sort of – along the lines of 'getting out of here before Christmas', a phrase people used all the time, but he paused for a second. "Interesting…"

Sally rubbed her temples and the throbbing in them eased a little. "What?"

She could almost hear his brain whirring as he began. "Neither of us is going to be missed for a few hours – you live alone and were taken on your way to a café, but you weren't meeting anyone. John is at his sister's for the weekend, which means we probably aren't under ransom. If we were they would have taken us at any time, most likely when it was liable to cause panic and frustration. Which means they want us to do something…"

He sprang to his feet – or at least tried. It ended up as more of a wobble that dropped him onto his knees with a crunch that made her wince.

"Propofol?" she said, whilst he was still looking critically at his legs and frowning. At least, she thought he was frowning – it was hard to distinguish his eyes from his eyebrows when they were blurred into one mess across his face.

"Only logical solution – it was injected," he said, tapping his neck, "which eliminates several likely anaesthetics, and the point of entry is still very sore. The brief stretch of twitching is also a side effect. At least I haven't suffered any hallucinations."

"How do you know?" she said, folding her arms and deciding to annoy him. "I could be a hallucination."

"The hallucinations are supposed to induce euphoria, and I really don't think kissing you falls into that category."

That shut her up for a little, until he decided to stand up again; he managed it this time, although she was afraid he was going to topple over again any second. If her phone hadn't been taken off her she'd have loved to film him wobbling around like a foal, if only to cheer her up on rainy days.

"So then?" she said, standing up as well and crossing her arms – she was trying to remain nonchalant, but she was ready to catch him if he fell. He was her ticket out of here; she didn't doubt he was the one the attention would be focused on, and she was merely some kind of side baggage. Disposable.

"Look for things," he said. "Things that seem out of place, or different, really look this time." He looked at her eyes and shrugged. "As well as you can anyway."

She turned around and poked into a corner with her foot, but there was nothing except dirt and some pebbles, nothing useful or interesting. She'd already done this, she thought bitterly. Sherlock was scuffling around behind her, and then suddenly he touched her back and there was a ripping sound. She whirled round, ready to hit him and tell him to use his own bloody clothing as an escape route, but stopped when she saw what he was holding.

He made a triumphant noise and passed her a note that had been taped to her back. Logically she knew she wouldn't have been able to find it by herself, but for him to get one up on her in such an easy way irked her, and the look of absolute smugness on his face she could see even with her eyesight made her want to punch him.

"What does it say?" he said, turning around as if he was dismissing her as some kind of idiot. She folded her arms.

"What, can't you read it yourself?"

"Can't be bothered," he said, and it was just a little too casual. She wasn't stupid, no matter what he thought, and the slight edge to the tone had her pricking up her ears.

"I'm not reading it," she said, leaning against one of the walls. He whirled, glaring at her.

"Why not?"

"Because you're a lazy git who should learn to do things for himself when he wants them." She was going to get to the bottom of this – Sherlock Holmes was the kind of man who picked up on every clue as soon as he could, so why would he choose to wait to read this one? He wouldn't have asked her to read it unless there was something stopping him reading it himself. And it was fun to watch him struggle. "Can you not read or something?"

"Of course I can read!" he snapped.

"Prove it."

He strode up to her and pulled the note from her hands. She squinted to see him more clearly and watched as he held the note, not close to his face, but as far away from it as possible, screwing up his eyes against something, and it clicked.

"You're longsighted! You've had your lenses taken as well!" she cried out. He flushed very slightly and threw the note down.

"Well if it's taken you this long to work it out Anderson might have competition for the lowest IQ in the whole of London."

She ignored the jab and picked the note up, holding it in front of his face to torment him. "Do you want me to read it for you then?"

His answer was almost inaudible, a slight mutter that he hid by tucking his head into his chest slightly.

"I'm sorry?" she said mockingly. "I can't hear you."

His head snapped up and he stared right at her. "If you've quite finished, perhaps you'd take a moment to consider someone is playing a game with us!" he snarled. She stopped and let her arm fall to her side.

"Surprisingly enough, I had guessed this wasn't your routine kidnapping."

"No!" he said, spinning on his heel so his coat, which was slightly white with the dirt on the floor, flared out around him. He looked even madder than usual. "No, you don't understand. Someone, someone who _knew _that you were shortsighted and I was longsighted, someone who knew you well enough to know where you live and where you were going, who knew me well enough to know I recover from more usual drugs very quickly, that person has locked us in a room together with a cryptic clue and the equivalent of one set of good eyes between us." He took a deep breath. "And that person can only be Moriarty."

She felt her heart go still for a second. She didn't know everything about him; half of it was gossip and that just made it worse – she didn't know what to believe. All she knew was he'd killed people. He'd nearly killed Sherlock; and she knew by experience it took a lot to kill Sherlock. If it hadn't she was sure Anderson would have murdered him months ago.

"I'll read it," she said, chastened, flipping the note.

He let out a long breath. "Thank you."

The writing was tiny – there was no way someone longsighted would have been able to make it out. "It says 'look up sweetheart.' Does that mean you or me?"

"Me," he said, jerking his head up and looking at the ceiling for a couple of seconds before raising a hand. "See there, trapdoor." She followed the direction he was pointing, but couldn't see anything, and she had looked at the ceiling earlier. The light was dim, but even when she squinted she couldn't make it out.

"I don't see anything."

He passed by her, a blur of movement. She was getting thoroughly pissed off with the way everything she saw was acting as if it were a very bad quality movie that someone had spilt coffee over to smudge the edges. At least he could see normally so long as he wasn't reading.

"The lines are too fine," he said, standing on tiptoe right underneath the spot where she was supposed to see something and craning his neck. "It's possible that for you it just blends into the ceiling. Good job the propofol didn't kill me or you'd have been stuck here for a long time."

She bristled. "Good job the knock over the head didn't kill me, or you'd never have been able to read the note."

He reached up for the trapdoor, but the ceiling was too far off for him to touch it. "I would have looked up eventually." Before she could retort he motioned her over and pointed at the door again. "Help me up."

She didn't bother mentioning the fact that actually he was probably heavier than her and so should be the one putting the muscle in because she knew it would encourage him to mock her further. Besides, he still didn't look right, and she didn't particularly trust him to hold her up properly without wobbling all over the place.

She put her hands together underneath the door and he placed one foot on her palms, balancing and reaching for the trapdoor; it pushed inwards without resistance, flipping into the unknown space above them, and he reached up and hooked his arms over the edge. She pushed upwards as he jumped and the combined efforts boosted him through the hole in the ceiling. There was a small amount of scrabbling and then, just before she could call and ask what the hell he was doing, a pale hand reached down from above. She grabbed it with some apprehension, but she wasn't heavy and he pulled her through without too much difficulty.

"Right," she said, when they both rolled over, away from the trapdoor, panting. "What do we have here then?"

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**Thanks for reading! Reviews are very welcome.**

**To be continued. **


	3. The Second Room

They were in another room, at first glance almost as bare as the other one. Sherlock was standing very still, looking around with quick little jerks of his head and frowning.

"What is it?" Sally said, squinting. There wasn't any door she could see.

"I don't know…" he mused. "I expected more than this."

"Maybe it's back down there," she said, indicating the hole in the floor. The slight glow filtering through was the only source of light in this room here. He shook his head.

"Unlikely. Search for another trapdoor."

She sighed and began to look around, ignoring the ceiling because he was staring up at it and the chances were she wouldn't be able to see that far even if she looked. Instead she got down into a crouch and began to look at the floor instead.

It got harder as she moved further away from the light source, until she was feeling with her fingertips for hinges. There was a pricking at the back of her spine that crawled along her skin like ants. This place wasn't right; it was scaring her, and it was too quiet.

"So," she said, coughing. Her throat was too dry, and it occurred to her that if they didn't find some water soon they might be in trouble. "What's this game then?"

Sherlock took a second to reply, and for a little there was only the sound of creaking boards. "I don't know. It seems like some sort of maze built into a building that's old, recently renovated, but I need more data if I'm going to assess the situation properly."

Jesus, he sounded just like a robot. "So you don't know?" He remained stubbornly silent, so she rolled her eyes and went back to feeling along the floor. Just as she was about to turn around and tell him it was hopeless her fingers hit something metal, and she pushed the second trapdoor down with a triumphant shout. Sherlock rushed over and gave a grudging nod.

"Well done Donovan."

She accepted it was the only praise she was going to get and glanced through the gap, but couldn't see anything. Still, she figured they weren't going to be killed just yet, so the drop wasn't going to be too long; she slid through without asking him first, landing with a thump and looking around. The floor was metal, and it clanged underneath her, but before she could shout up for him not to follow he'd already joined her, and they were trapped.

It was a cage. At least, it bore resemblance to one – the walls all around them were dull iron, and then the one directly in front of them consisted of bars, close enough together to ensure that nothing short of a small cat would be able to get through. Behind the bars was the rest of the room, completely empty. Sherlock cursed and she looked back up at the ceiling, but the trapdoor was too far away for her to reach. As she watched it swung shut automatically and there was a harsh click. Locked in.

She began to panic a little, but kept her breathing steady – she was a police officer, she knew how to stay in control. At least there was light coming from the far end of the room, a small circle of some kind set into the wall.

Sherlock slammed his hands against the bars with a snarl, and the clanging echoed with her heavy breathing. The room didn't seem larger than the last, but the metal made it colder.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock snarled. "Moriarty, show your face! Speak to me!"

The clangs faded into silence and there was no response. Sally sighed and rested her head on the cold metal; this was a bad day – she was sure she could feel her headache returning with a vengeance.

"We'll have to work it out," Sherlock said, pacing up and down and making her dizzy. "We have to work out what he wants."

"Right," she said dully, sinking to the floor. He stopped moving and looked at her.

"What?"

"Nothing. Only, what if he what he wants is to leave us here to starve to death?"

She almost heard the cogs in his brain start to whir, and when he spoke it was with the calm reassurance of an insufferably arrogant man who thinks he knows everything.

"Not Moriarty's style," he stated, going back to pacing. "Not nearly elaborate enough."

"I'm glad you think so," she snapped, wrapping her hands around the bars and staring into the distance. There was a pause in the scuffling above her, and then Sherlock sat next to her, stiffly and awkwardly. She shifted away, more out of principle than anything else.

"I'm sorry," he said. Her head snapped up, curls bouncing over her forehead. She could see from the way he was squinting at her that this distance was the worst for both of them, just out of her range of good vision and just into his range of bad.

"You're never sorry."

"No-one deserves Moriarty. He's a spider."

"Guess we're the flies."

He nodded. They sat in silence for a little – Sherlock seemed to be thinking, his head tipped back against he bars and his hands propped under his chin. She let him think, and did a little of it herself, although she doubted it was as productive. She thought about a cup of tea and her stomach growled slightly. If Sherlock heard he didn't mention it.

"So," she said eventually. "You and John."

He twitched and came out of the reverie. "Mmm. Although not for much longer."

Her first reaction was to hit him, because John was a fairly sweet bloke who did not deserve to be messed around. Her second was one of concern – the drop in his tone told her something was wrong.

He looked upset.

"What do you mean?" There was no point in asking him if he was alright, because he'd just shut up like a clam and refuse to say anything, but give him a point to explain to the idiots of the world and he'd probably go on for hours.

"Well. I cheated on him."

She blinked. "Really? You dick."

He glared, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "A bit hypocritical, aren't we?"

"Anderson's marriage was on the rocks – they'd turned it into something open. His wife knew what we were doing, and she was down in the south doing the exact same with her boyfriend." It felt good to tell him he was wrong – a sort of savage pleasure that spread to her fingers and toes.

"Oh."

"Who're you cheating on him with? Is it that girl from the morgue? She's all over you."

He laughed. "Molly? Really Donovan, you are obtuse." If it hadn't been for the hitch in his voice she would have bit back, but she waited. "Just now. I…I kissed someone else. That's cheating." He added something that might have been 'according to the internet' under his breath.

She took a second to work out what he was saying. "You're saying John will think you were cheating because you kissed me?"

He looked at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course."

"A kiss in which you were drugged up on god knows what and mistook me for him?"

"Yes."

"Where I promptly poked you in the eye and yelled at you to get off?"

"Stop it!" he said, trembling, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Stop tormenting me!"

She was shocked to see him go to pieces – so shocked she didn't even remark that he made his living out of tormenting people at the station.

"Torment?"

"Well it's all gone now, isn't it?" he choked out. "All because of you, someone, to be honest, I didn't want to kiss, if it had been someone I meant to kiss it might have been better but losing him because of that is just pointless…"

She groaned. "I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock, that that doesn't count as cheating and I don't think John is going to break up with you because of it."

He stopped shaking immediately and raised his head. "But I kissed someone else, and the general consensus is that it is a breach of trust between John and I."

She gingerly touched his shoulder, and when he didn't flinch away pressed down in what she hoped was reassurance. "You're new to this whole relationship thing aren't you?"

He hesitated, clinging onto his pride a second longer, then gave in and nodded miserably. "I tried so hard, but I don't understand everything yet. There are things that aren't just chemical."

"It's not cheating," she said. "I'll vouch for you if it goes that far. Now I'm not saying go and kiss random people in the street and it'll be fine, but in this particular case you're blameless. Alright?"

He nodded, and she removed her hand. The air of prickliness was back around him again, he'd wrapped a cloak over his shoulders, but he didn't start pacing a second time. They sat quietly side by side, waiting, and she smiled sadly at the idea of the consulting detective being reduced to asking ordinary, idiotic strangers how to behave because he was so desperate not to lose his doctor.

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**Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	4. The First Test

Sally woke with a start, not remembering falling asleep. Her mouth was dangerously dry now, lips sticking to her teeth and clinging there like netting. Stupid lips. Who needed lips anyway? She coughed and wished she hadn't – sandpaper was her primary thought when she put a hand to her throat. It was awful.

Sherlock was next to her, his eyes glinting in the darkness – someone had turned out the lights then. Who? When? How long had she been asleep?

"A couple of hours," said Sherlock before she could ask. "I've been keeping watch, don't worry. The light went out a few minutes ago, so something interesting should be happening soon."

As soon as he'd finished speaking there was a click and a whirr of a tape of some kind; it made too much noise to be a CD or even a live speaker. A pre-recorded tape, an old fashioned one, playing loudly and booming in her ears. The Beejees. Was that Staying Alive? She hated that song.

The music stopped a high-pitched voice rang out, Irish. Moriarty then, it had to be.

"_Hello there baby! Did you miss me? I see you've brought a different friend this time. Well, I wouldn't say friend…_"

Sherlock stiffened and clenched his fists, but neither of them dared speak in case they missed anything important.

"_Let's cut to the chase my little chickies. I'm bored at the moment, very bored, so I set this up. It's a bit like that movie, the one with the games. Except we don't want any blood. Yet._"

Sally shuddered. Sherlock twitched.

"_You'll probably have realised by now those eyes of yours aren't quite up to spec – get it? Spec? Spectacles? Oh, alright, it's not one of my best, but there's nothing you can do about it._" How could such a ridiculous sounding voice be so terrifying? "_There are very few rules to this game, because it's all fairly self-explanatory. I just wanted to let you know someone is watching you and if you try anything they can make life very, very uncomfortable. So have fun!_"

There was a click and a silence that washed over her and made her spine feel as if it was going to twist itself into knots of terror. Then the light flared and something appeared in white on the far wall, but it was just a lot of smudges to her. It could have been symbols or actual letters, maybe even a very strange picture, but she couldn't make any of it out.

"Projected," Sherlock muttered, glancing up. "There's a projector in the ceiling up there." She could see a pinprick of light where his finger was pointing. "And there has to be a camera somewhere…" He was talking to himself again, so she cut across him.

"What does it say?"

He glanced at the wall and began to read, but the words sounded as if someone had hooked a machine into his throat – they weren't his own. "Three questions chickies. Don't fail me now. One: What is the name of the Voldemort's snake?" He frowned. "Who or what is Voldemort?"

She sighed. "Long story. So, we have to answer them?"

He nodded. "We have to work together – none of these questions mean anything to me, being associated with pointless things my brain has no room for. I read, you answer."

She felt she would have to get used to this working together thing. "Alright. The snake was Nagini."

Nothing happened, but Sherlock ploughed on regardless. "Complete the lyric - 'It's Friday, Friday…'"

She pulled a face – the song was not one she was fond of. "Gotta get down on Friday. And the last one?"

"What's the name of the actor who played the sixth doctor?"

Her face fell – she wasn't a fan of Doctor Who and never had been. She turned to Sherlock, but he was staring at her intently, obviously waiting for her to answer. She shook her head.

"No idea. What happens if we get it wrong?"

"It doesn't say." His arms dropped to his side, and he tipped his forehead against the bars. "Guess. We'll see what happens if we do get it wrong."  
She thought back to one of the people she knew had played the doctor, once – she didn't remember what number he was, but she knew he was early on.

"Tom Baker."

There was nothing. "Did I get it right?" Her voice was too high. The light faded from the opposite wall and she waited, but nothing happened. Then there was a second click and another white flare that seared her eyeballs slightly. More words, right in front her, very tiny words that were hard for _her _to see, let alone Sherlock.

She leaned forwards and peered and them, and her heart sank. She knew Sherlock was clever…but did he really know all this?

"Okay, these are yours," she said. "I hope to god you know what they're on about, because I have no idea."

Sherlock nodded. "Read it."

"What is pi to ten decimal places?" She knew what pi was, perhaps to one or two places, but certainly not ten.

"3.1415926536," Sherlock said with no more than a second's hesitation.

She gave a sigh. "How the fuck do you even do that?"

"I'm a genius."

"Freak."

He chuckled and she read the next one without prompting. "The exact chemical formula for..." she squinted at the name. "Er…Tourmuline? Tormalin? Do you want me to spell it, it looks tricky."

"Tourmaline," he said snappily. "Use your eyes, been as they're so much better at this task than mine."

She ignored him, but the snapping worried her – it meant he was nervous. Or maybe he was just being his usual prickish self. "Do you know it?"

"Mind palace."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. When she turned to look at him he was completely still, his eyes darting as if looking at something in the distance that was moving very rapidly. Every now and then his arms would move from left to right, or his face would twitch. It was unnerving, but he didn't appear to be having a seizure, which she supposed was good.

Eventually he spread his hands with a triumphant snort. "Got it. Right next to Einstein."

"What?"

"Method of Loci – look it up when we get out of here." She liked how he could make such easy assumptions. "The formula is XY3Z6(T6O18)(BO3)3V3W."

She snorted. "This is ridiculous. My questions were easy! Yours are just…beyond testing."

"That's the point though," Sherlock said. "The questions had to be something the person who could read would have no idea of the answer to. It's very neat."

"It's creepy."

He didn't deny the fact. "And the last one?"

She sighed and leaned forwards to read it. "What is the common name for the plant Helianthus Annuus?" That one, actually, sounded very vaguely familiar – her grandmother had been a keen gardener – but she wouldn't have been able to give an answer.

"Sunflower," he said, with only a half-minute of thinking. There was another click and the sound of slow clapping filled the room.

"_Very good, you two. I suppose I'll have to say you're through to the next round then!_" The fact it was still a pre-recorded tape talking made her nervous – it was like Moriarty had known all along how they were going to answer. Or maybe he'd decided to pass them no matter what they got right because knew he wasn't going to be bored of the game yet.

There was a click and three of the bars of the cage vanished into the ceiling, sliding up slightly until there was a space large enough to get through – it looked just like it was out of a film. Sherlock went through without so much as blinking – she supposed he didn't watch enough movies to be amazed – and she followed quickly. The trapdoor was easy to find, and she dropped down after him as quickly as possible, glad to be rid of the metal that surrounded them.

* * *

**So...what do you think of the first test? There will be more. And they are going to get much, much harder.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome.**

**To be continued.**


	5. The First Rest

The room she fell into was wonderfully warm – she hadn't realised just how cold her fingers had been until the heat washed over them. It was smaller than the others, only four by four metres at the most, and there was a line of red cushions against one wall that looked rather inviting, even if she wouldn't trust them not to be stuffed with cobras, and a row of six metal boxes at the farthest end.

They waited a couple of seconds to see if there would be some kind of message, but when there was only silence Sherlock crossed over to the boxes and picked one up, holding it away from his face and inspecting it from all angles. It rattled when he moved it.

"It doesn't sound dangerous," she said, poking at another with her foot.

"They need unlocking from underneath," Sherlock said, indicating a large lock on the bottom of the box he was holding. He looked around the room for a couple of seconds, then crossed to the cushions and nudged them away from the wall, revealing five keys, one under each cushion apart from the third along, which he immediately scooped up and began placing in the locks, trying each key in succession and using his fingers to feel when his eyesight failed him. She bent down to help him, squinting to see which key looked the best fit for the box she was holding.

But there were six boxes, and only five keys, and she didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to work it out – she'd got one wrong. She knew it hadn't been Tom Baker at all, because Sherlock never actually got things wrong. He wasn't commenting yet, but she was waiting for him to; it was all she could do not to cry. So far she'd thought she'd shown herself in a pretty good light, for her, but now…his questions had been so hard, and hers had been so bloody easy and yet they were going to lose out because of it (providing, of course, the boxes didn't contain explosives, in which case there was really no point in spending her last few seconds worrying).

By the time they'd turned out all the boxes they could get into she was exhausted, but looking on eagerly. They had two small bottles of water, some kind of flapjack and two caffeine pills – at least she guessed that was what they were. The way Sherlock held things at arm's length whilst she brought them close up to her face to examine them, both of them squinting, amused her slightly.

Sherlock handed her a bottle of water, and she passed him one of the caffeine pills. They sat and looked at the flapjack between them; no doubt there was a second one in the final box, the one they didn't have a key to. She knew that, rightfully, the flapjack was all his and she expected him to take it. Why should he give anything up for what he'd surely consider as her idiocy?

She took a sip of water and tried to ignore the food sitting near to her foot. The water was good, cold and fresh, and it made her lips less heavy and her brain less fuzzy. Sherlock drank as well, sipping with a lot more self-control than she did.

She screwed the cap back on the bottle when there was about a quarter left and retreated to the cushions, slipping the caffeine pill in her pocket for later. If she couldn't eat then she might as well sleep, and it was nice to sit on something that wasn't wood or metal.

She'd barely made it over and leaned her head against the wall before he was there, hovering over her like a crow.

"What?" she muttered, cracking open half and eye and glaring. "I want to sleep, what do you want?"

"Here," he said, passing her the flapjack and sitting on the cushion furthest away from her. "I don't eat whilst I'm on a case; it slows me down."

She thought back to cases that had lasted for over a week – no wonder the man was insufferable. But she felt that if she took it she'd lose yet more of her pride in this stupid battle that was going on between them.

"It's yours," she said. "And I ate before I left the house."

He sniffed. "That's a lie. You were planning on going to eat in a café because your oven broke last night, but you never made it because you were jumped in the cab. Also you're registering the signs of hunger – growling stomach and short temper. At least, shorter than usual." This last was said in a sort of stage whisper that she wasn't sure was a jab or a joke.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, I'm hungry, but it's your bloody flapjack, and you know it. The sixth doctor wasn't Tom Baker."

He shrugged. She looked at the food and thought how much easier it would be to sleep if she had something to eat first. And he was offering it to her; he said he didn't want it, he hadn't complained he was hungry.

And yet, the little spark of pride stayed with her.

"Share it," she said. "We'll suppose we don't know who was wrong and have half each." She took the oat bar out of the wrapper and tore in two, keeping one for herself and passing the other to him – but she didn't eat it, not yet. She wouldn't eat until he did.

"I won't eat mine," he said stubbornly. "Eating makes you stupid."

"You will eat it," she said, gritting her teeth. "Because if you drop dead from starvation John will pull my intestines out very slowly. You understand?"

She took a defiant bite of her own and, with the look of a five year old made to consume large amounts of broccoli, Sherlock Holmes ate the bloody flapjack.

* * *

She dreamt she was lost in a desert, and then in a station, and then lost in the whole world, wandering around and unsure of what was happening. Everything at the time seemed perfectly normal, apart from the fact she was lost, and it was only when she woke up she realised it was impossible for her to have been lost in the middle of Africa because she was, in fact, still stuck in a dingy room with a consulting sociopath – although she knew the label no longer fitted him – and a siren blaring in her ear.

Her eyes felt sticky, and she had the unnerving sensation of not knowing when she'd actually stopped eating and fallen asleep, although there was no flapjack left, which disappointed her slightly. She felt more tired than before, which meant she couldn't have been asleep longer than three hours.

Sherlock was already standing up, his hands over his ears and shouting something she couldn't hear over the noise. It was a shrieking, wailing roar of high-pitched noise that set her teeth on edge and forced her to stick her fingers in her ears.

"What's going on?" she screamed over the racket, but he either didn't hear or couldn't be bothered to answer. She staggered to her feet and made her way over to where he was standing – the sound faded slightly at that side of the room – and tapped him on the shoulder with her elbow, not daring to take her hands away from her ears.

"What's happening?" she mimed, but he only stared and squinted, stepping back a pace and leaning away from her. She sighed – of course; he couldn't see her lips in enough detail close up.

Before she could work out what they could do to communicate the wailing stopped, leaving her ears feeling like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool, still ringing slightly.

"What was that?" she said, and her voice was muffled even in her own ears. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, and she wondered if he'd actually got any sleep.

"It'll be another test," he said, looking around. "I'd eat that caffeine tablet now, in case we don't get the chance later."

She conceded he was probably right and popped it on her tongue, and hurriedly drank the rest of the water to chase it down. She knew that soon she was going to need to pee, and then things would get awkward, but right now she had other things on her mind that were pushing the nagging feeling away from the forefront of her mind.

They stood at a loss for a few seconds, looking around stupidly. She expected more writing to appear on the wall, or another tape to play, but there was nothing. Maybe it had all been just to annoy them – maybe Moriarty was going to wake them up every few hours just to exhaust them.

And then the bottom dropped out of the floor.

* * *

**I know a few of you were confused about the Tom Baker/Colin Baker question. Hopefully this explains it - Sally was just making a wild guess.**

**So, now their brief respite is over something interesting is waiting for Sally and Sherlock in the wings. **

**Thanks for reading, I hope you're enjoying it.**

**To be continued!**


	6. The Second Test

Sally felt for a second that this was really the end; that she was going to strike something hard or sharp or generally horrible and die right there. Her heart flew upwards into her throat and her stomach lurched, throwing bile into her mouth and leaving her feeling limp and blank. Her whole mind froze to a stop in horror, screaming. She didn't know whether the screaming was inside or outside her head.

She didn't think she'd ever been so terrified in her life before.

She landed softly. The drop hadn't been more than five metres, and the ground was squashy, like a mattress. She looked down and saw it was in fact the safety foam that lines the edges of children's play areas, a garish yellow that made her eyes ache. She wasn't hurt, apart from having the wind knocked out of her and her heart hammering in her chest. Perhaps the caffeine hadn't been such a good idea.

Sherlock had landed next to her with a groan, and as soon as she had her breath back she crawled over to him. "You alright?"

He nodded and got to his feet, but when he stood she saw he walked on his left ankle slightly oddly – it wasn't broken or sprained, but even a mild twist was going to set them back, even if he wouldn't admit it. She decided not to argue with him right now, and instead took in their surroundings.

They were at the edge of a dip in the ground, with a ladder at her left, and another adjacent to it, like a swimming pool. She squinted and saw the bottom of the dip was full of brightly coloured plastic balls, the kind that kids love to play in at parties. She didn't want to know what they had to do to get through this game, but she wasn't looking forward to it.

She'd barely got to her feet before the voice rang out, played on tape again and making her shiver. "_Welcome chickies! Are we all rested and fed now? Good, good. This is a much better game than last one – much more amusing. As you can see, this is a ball pool. In it are over seven hundred balls, and of them fifty are marked with crosses. These you will have to find and take to the tube on the opposite side of the pool._"

Sally looked up and saw there was indeed a tube, full of different balls. Roughly one from the top was one that looked silver, although it was so blurred and she couldn't tell how many were in the tube exactly; everything was no better than smudges of colour. Sherlock was looking at the ceiling, leaning slightly on his good ankle, as the trapdoor they'd been dropped so suddenly through swung back up with a click.

"_Sealed in the silver ball is the key out of here – push balls into the top and force the silver one down and out of the bottom of tube and you can open the door behind you._" She whipped round and saw a sturdy-looking door sitting innocently in the wall behind her, adorned with a large gold lock. "_But be warned – try and use balls not marked with a cross and you really will regret it_.

"_Of course_," Moriarty went on, starting to irritate her now. "_This would be no fun without a time limit. After ten minutes a lot of tear gas will be released, and that will make things a lot harder to work with. After five minutes of that you're down to a certain hallucinogen you, Sherlock baby, might be familiar with. And if that doesn't inspire you to get a move on, well, I'm really not above killing one of you. Your time starts now, chickies!_"

For a second Sally stood in horror, processing what had just been said to her. What kind of madman came up with something so elaborate and complicated, used children's toys in his own sick games? And now the threat wasn't something vague and uncertain, it was life, one of their lives.

She was down the ladder before she'd even finished thinking, picking up balls at random and holding them close to her face to check for crosses. Mere seconds had passed but already she felt the process was much too slow. Seven hundred balls and fifty marked with crosses – one in every fourteen should be a right one, but she hadn't had any luck…

Sherlock's hand rested on her arm and pulled her round. "Stop! You're panicking; we need to think about this logically."

She snorted, dropping the blue plastic ball she'd been holding. "Logic! You're talking about logic at a time like this." She wrenched out of his grip and stepped back a pace, almost tripping on the many balls that coated the bottom of the pit. "I suppose it's alright for you – if he kills one of us it's bound to be me. You're his little pet aren't you? You're the great Sherlock Holmes, and I'm just Sally, so who's he going to have more fun with? Who's he going to keep alive?" Her voice was high and mocking, rising hysterically.

Sherlock stood stiffly, still leaning very slightly. "Donovan…Sally." She hated the way the name grated on his teeth; she hated everything at the moment. "We'll work faster if we divide the pool into sections and throw the unmarked balls up and out of the pit so we aren't picking up the same ones over and over again."

She took a deep breath, hating how simply he could function in a situation like this. "Alright. I'll do this end, you do that one. And when you get a ball give it to me, you've hurt your ankle and you can't deny it. You'll take too long on the ladder." She knew he was about to argue with her, so she cut over him. "Shut up about it, you're wasting time."

It was hypocritical of her, but she didn't care, and he didn't comment, so they forgot about it.

Sifting through the balls was horrible when her hands were shaking and her throat stinging, and her back hurt and all she wanted was a cup of bloody tea. She channelled the anger, using it to her advantage, hating Moriarty and convincing herself that all she had to do was get through this and she could go home. Every useless ball thrown out of the pit was just one step closer.

Sherlock didn't make a sound from the other side, apart from the swishing, bobbling noises created when he moved. She held up a yellow ball to her face, turning it every which way in the hope of spotting a cross, not expecting to see one. Then the black marker leapt out at her and she gave a triumphant shout, scrambling for the ladder on the tube's side of the pit and throwing herself up it.

She jammed the yellow ball into the top of the tube and a red one dropped out of the bottom; she kicked it away, taking a second to count how many they had to go. The silver ball was now fourteen from the bottom. They had to find fourteen crossed balls in about eight minutes.

It was going to be impossible.

* * *

"Here!" came Sherlock's shout, and she accepted the two crossed balls, one blue and one green, which he threw up to her, rammed them into the tube and jumped back into the pit.

It was like wading through hundreds of sweets. Her heart was hammering and she considered the fact that this amount of stress really wasn't good for her; everything was blurring together, time and colours and crosses. Every now and then she'd find a marked ball and her heart would leap, or Sherlock would shout to her, and then she'd be forced up the odious ladder, even though her limbs were heavy and her throat sticky again. Sherlock had removed his coat and his shirt was clinging to his back; the room was almost too hot to bear.

The silver ball dropped and dropped, but without a timer they could see and almost all their concentration on the balls themselves she was in a constant state of apprehension. Would it be now? Now? She fancied she heard a noise and winced, but nothing happened, and she felt stupid.

It was like rationality had just dropped out of the window, and they were swimming in panic and hundreds of pieces of rainbow that had shattered around her and formed this hell. Even Sherlock looked ruffled, his hair sticking up and sweat dripping down his face; she was sure his ankle was giving out but she didn't look at him enough to be sure, keeping focused on whether there was a magic cross or not. She didn't know how Moriarty would know which ones they were using, but she didn't doubt he would.

She grasped one of them triumphantly and ran for the ladder, but her foot twisted on a ball lying in wait under the others and she fell hard on her hands and knees with a groan. She couldn't show weakness, she couldn't let either of them know how hard this was for her, how scared she was, and she forced herself upright before Sherlock could come over and humiliate her by helping.

It was only when another ball was spat out of the bottom of the tube she realised – the silver one was at the bottom. One more ball and it would be out.

She was too out of breath to actually tell Sherlock this, but no doubt he'd already seen. Just as she reached the top of the ladder he leapt up and threw one to her, red, and definitely marked. She performed a rather impressive turn and leapt for the tube, just as the voice rang out again.

"_First round up in ten! Nine! Eight!_"

"I've got it," she gasped, not very coherent, but happy as the silver ball finally dropped to her feet. She plunged back into the pit, which was getting empty now – they'd thrown so many of the balls out – and met Sherlock halfway.

"_Four! Three!_"

The ball rattled as Sherlock ripped it from her grasp, holding it at arms length so he could see it properly and looking all over for some kind of opening, but finding none. The blood was pounding in her ears to the rhythm of her heart, too fast.

"I can't open it!" he said, digging at the material with his fingernails, but she knew how strong that stuff was, designed to withstand hundreds of small children's hands and feet tearing at it for days on end.

"Here!" she said, taking it back and biting at the rubber. Her tongue got in the way of her teeth, her hair fell into her mouth, but it worked, and the ball began to give way.

"_Two! One!_"

The ball stretched but wouldn't break, and her jaw was hurting, so she passed it back. He copied her technique, wiping the ball first – she wanted to punch him – and stuffing it in his own mouth.

"_Zero! Out of time chickies…_"

There was a hissing noise and for a second or two everything was normal, and she thought that maybe it was a trick, that the gas was fake.

And then her eyes seemed to burst into flames, heat searing along the edges and spreading to her nose and mouth, burning along her throat and into her lungs. She gave a scream and pressed her hands to her streaming eyes, blinded by white blurs that ripped through her vision – the light, distorted by water. Panic was the first instinct, but she forced it down and rubbed her eyes again and again, looking for Sherlock. Her nose felt heavy and warm, and began to stream almost as much as her eyes.

Sherlock was still working at the ball – it was almost torn – but she could see him struggling, so she took it from him and bit through the last millimetres. The key fell and she caught it instinctively – she'd always been a good catcher.

Sherlock doubled over, coughing, and when they began to stagger towards the other ladder he tripped and fell blindly.

"Come on!" she croaked, feeling like someone was scrabbling at the back of her throat with their fingernails. Sherlock stooped to retrieve his coat as she bounded for the ladder. The key was slippery with her tears, but she somehow made it up and rolled onto the edge of the pool, staggering to the door and feeling for the lock, barely able to see anything. There were a series of coughs building in her throat that she knew soon were going to rip through her.

The key dropped from her hands and she swore, but she doubted anyone could hear her. It was like running late for work, everything seemed to go wrong and took far too much time – she turned the key at least six times before the lock clicked. Finally though, the door opened. She resisted the urge to run straight through it and turned back, looking for Sherlock.

He was half in and out of the pool, braced over the ladder with his eyes closed and practically coughing his lungs out. She didn't know how much time they had before things got a whole lot worse, but the air was choking in here and she wanted to get out. Her own coughing began as she made for him, seized the top of his head and dragged him bodily over the side by his hair.

They stumbled and fell inelegantly through the door and she slammed it shut behind them. Immediately the air was easier to breathe, even if she couldn't see and there was too much saliva in her mouth, and snot dripping down her chin and everything was disgusting.

But they'd passed the test.

* * *

**So, the tests are getting harder - what do you think of this one?**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews/constructive criticism welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	7. The Third Room

Sherlock slid down the wall with a groan, still coughing, and Sally forced herself over to him, even though all she wanted to do was curl up and cry the tears out of her eyes. She was used to things being blurry when she didn't have her lenses, but this was beyond stupid; it was like the whole world was made of ripples of dim colour.

"You alright?" she said, dropping down beside him. He tried to nod, but the coughing went on and on, until he was bright red. His face, like hers, was covered in tears.

"Are you sure?"

The coughing faded slightly and he nodded again. She brought up a hand to rub her throat absentmindedly, and then scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. The world came a little more into focus. They were in yet another room, dimly lit so that she couldn't make out much except for Sherlock, and that was because she knew he was there. She sniffed, but her nose refused to stop running. Sherlock swallowed.

"Well done."

She acknowledged the praise with a nod. "You did well too."

He shook his head. "Should have been faster…couldn't." He was cut off with another cough. "Couldn't get through the plastic with my teeth…"

"You sure you're alright?" She felt stupid, repeating herself, but the thought of what John would do to her intestines if something happened to Sherlock was slightly chilling.

He nodded. "Do stop being tedious. I simply inhaled more of the gas when I had to take a deep breath after holding it for so long with the ball in my mouth."

"Well you look like a sickly beetroot, so I thought I'd better check."

Through the tears she was fairly sure he was glaring at her. "I bear no resemblance to a root vegetable, ailing or otherwise."

She snorted. "Whatever. What can you see in here?"

He rubbed at his eyes, sniffed and looked around. "Nothing…"

She tapped the floor and realised it was metal, chilling her hands; already she felt cooler, her body temperature dropping. The sensation was rather pleasant after the heat of the second test.

"Is he going to say anything?" she said, looking at the ceiling. "Or is this one of those ones where we have to work out where the door is?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know – there's nothing in this room to deduce." He squinted, blinked a couple more times, and then went into the corner and came back with a small bottle of water. "It might be another chance for us to sleep."

She sipped from the bottle and passed it back to him. She knew she was still dehydrated slightly, but now the test was over the need to pee was intensifying. Still, she drank, because she didn't know when she'd get another opportunity.

Soon the bottle was empty. Sherlock set it back down and leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed, although he wasn't sleeping – the way the tips of his fingers pressed together told her he was thinking. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them and drew them into her chest.

The worst thing about needing to pee was it became the only thing on her mind. Whenever she moved it was uncomfortable, until eventually she couldn't take it any more. She made her way to the empty bottle and quietly unscrewed the cap, but the noise alerted Sherlock; he opened his eyes and looked at her curiously.

Embarrassed, she resorted to nastiness to cover for the blush spreading along her cheeks. "Are you just going to stare at me, pervert?"

He stiffened, sitting up straighter, but turned away. She got the feeling he hadn't known what she'd been doing before, and felt guilt mix with her embarrassment and anger. This was degrading – it was humiliating. Moriarty could be staring at her right now and she wouldn't know it. Also, she wasn't well-equipped for this kind of task – peeing in anything smaller than a bowl was insufferably difficult.

She finished quickly and with a minimum of mess, and then screwed the bottle top on. Her cheeks were burning as much as her eyes now, so she rolled the bottle away; out of sight out of mind.

Sherlock was still facing stubbornly away from her. "You don't need to go, do you?" she said hesitantly.

"Already went," he said stiffly. "In the room before the balls, while you were asleep. Now don't bother me, I'm thinking."

* * *

It was an hour later Sherlock suddenly gave a start and turned to face her. In that time Sally had dozed a little and decided she was hungry again, and, when her eyesight had cleared of tears, had gone round the room four times. It was like her life was so bizarre it had to be a dream, but she couldn't get to sleep for long enough to escape it.

She didn't bother asking him what it was – she knew he was going to tell her anyway.

"The temperature!" he said. "The temperature in this room is slowly dropping, I'm sure of it." He put a hand to her forehead and nodded. "You've got colder, much colder. The air too – soon our breath will start condensing."

She felt a sharp stab of fear. "Is he going to freeze us to death? Is it a test?"

Sherlock shook his head. "If it was a test he would have explained the rules. I can't understand why then he'd leave us…maybe if…"

He did that thing where he trailed off again, lost in himself. "Maybe it's like preparation for the next one," she suggested without much hope. "You know, soften us up for the next round."

To her surprise he seemed to agree with her, nodding to himself. The corner of his mouth twitched up slightly. "Clever of him. Very clever."

"So, what do we do?" she said. "How far do you think it's going to drop? I wouldn't put it past that man to lose us a few fingers or toes."

"We conserve body heat," he said stiffly, pulling at his coat. She felt her heart drop a couple of centimetres.

"Please not like in the cheesy novels…"

He stared at her. "I'm afraid I'm unaware of whatever literature you're referring to."

"You're not going to make us strip and shove our hands into each other's armpits or something?" He looked positively horrified; so much so she wished she hadn't said anything.

"I doubt it'll come to that," he said eventually. "Besides, stripping would be counterproductive in this case – Moriarty doesn't want to kill us yet, we're better keeping our clothes on."

"Well. Good." There were a couple of awkward seconds. Now she knew it was happening the air did suddenly seem very cold – she was only wearing a pair of trousers and a jumper, casual clothes designed to stand the outside air, but not really made for really cold conditions. Sherlock had his coat, but underneath that there could only be a shirt, and his trousers were probably no better than hers.

"The important thing is to keep our hands warm," he said, still looking at her like she'd sprouted fangs and extra eyes. "We'll need them for the next task, most likely; when they start stinging or feeling stiff yes, put them under your arms, _your own _arms."

She did so, then pulled her knees up to her chest and curled up small – she remembered from science lessons she had to minimise her surface area. Sherlock moved slightly closer to her, and she felt his presence warm the air slightly on her left side.

She didn't speak, and he didn't speak. They just sat, just existed, and she felt herself growing more and more lost in her thoughts, which were all she had for real company here. What if it got even worse than this? Was her breath misting in front of her, or was it just the bad light and her imagination tricking her? What if she never got out? Would anyone miss her? How long did they have to stay in this place?

Her nose grew cold and heavy, so she leaned forwards and tried to tuck it between her knees. She was shivering now, only slightly, but enough for her to feel uncomfortable and tired. She moved closer to Sherlock until their legs almost pressed together, and saw him flinch away slightly from the contact. It made her slightly annoyed, but Sherlock never really wanted to touch anyone, so it probably wasn't just her.

Her toes began to tingle, and she wriggled them in her shoes, desperately trying to get feeling back into them. Her breath was definitely misting now, forming small puffs every time she exhaled; she watched the patterns dance and remembered the times she'd pretend she was smoking as she walked along, when she was eleven years old and no doubt looked ridiculous.

Finally though she turned to Sherlock, to suggest they try running around or something to generate more heat, although it was probably already too late. Her heart gave a little stutter of panic when she saw him – his eyes were closed and his head had fallen sideways onto his shoulder, his hands dropped down to his side. He was clearly asleep, and she knew sleep was bad in this situation, anyone knew that…

She elbowed him sharply in the side, and he gave a jerk and sat up, scrambling back into the curled up position they'd both adopted.

"When was the last time you slept for more than ten minutes?" she said accusingly, seeing how his lips were tinged slightly blue – why did he have to be so bloody skinny?

He muttered something and yawned. "About four days. Had a case and didn't have time to sleep properly before all this happened…"

He trailed off again, and she kicked him to keep him focused, perhaps a little harder than was necessary, because sometimes Sherlock Holmes really was an idiot. "Why didn't you sleep in the other room? You know, where it was warm?"

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like 'didn't need to' or 'didn't want to' and she was forced to realise he was crashing bloody fast, and she needed to do something. Her eye fell on his coat, and the ridiculous statement she'd come out with before popped into her head. Surely…yes…

She pulled the coat off him – he looked like he barely noticed – and quickly threw it over both of their heads so it was like a tent, supported by two human poles. It was long enough to cover down to her shins if she curled up small, and immediately they were enclosed in a bubble of air that became muggy and stuffy, but wonderfully warm. She was rather proud of her idea, so much so that when Sherlock's head fell onto her shoulder she didn't shove it away, only wished that John Watson would come and find his boyfriend quickly and take him home, because the man was completely hopeless.

* * *

**AN: I'm thinking of changing the title of this to 'Fun House', should I? **

**Thanks for reading! Reviews, suggestions and constructive criticism very welcome.**

**To be continued. **


	8. The Third Test

**Wow, I'd like to say thank you so much for the lovely reviews you've all been leaving! After reading them and some consideration I think I will leave the title as it is. I'm really glad you're all liking this.**

**Reply to Anon: There will be about twenty chapters in this story, I think. **

* * *

Sally woke with a groan – she'd been dozing on and off for what felt like hours, but probably wasn't, and she'd been having strange dreams. She knew it had been ridiculously stupid of them both to fall asleep at such a temperature, but they were alive, for now.

Some sort of siren was making a wailing noise outside their dark, stuffy bubble of survival and she strained her ears to listen. Sherlock muttered something that sounded like 'John' and 'ow', and then roused himself with a little sigh.

They didn't talk; she didn't think her cold lips would function enough for her to do so anyway. Sherlock didn't praise her for practically saving his life, and she handed him his coat without a word. The temperature was still cold, but a door had opened in the opposite wall – in fact, a whole wall had slid back and away. It was stupidly elaborate, but Moriarty could blow up whole buildings, so she didn't doubt he could construct a sliding metal door.

They walked through it as quickly as possible, although stumbled was perhaps a more accurate term, as her legs had gone to sleep and Sherlock was still limping slightly, even if he tried to hide it. They were both shivering, and Sherlock's teeth chattered with a low clicking noise. Her fingers were heavy and numb, and she clenched and unclenched her hands a few times, desperate to get the blood flowing to them again.

The door slid shut behind them and she registered the fact this room was slightly warmer, but it was going to take more time than they probably had for them to heat up fully. She was sick of rooms, so sick she didn't even bother looking very thoroughly. It was a brightly lit one, and there was a target at the centre of the far wall, and a bow and arrow resting on the floor. There were five doors, each marked with the colours on the target – white, black, blue, red and finally, yellow. It was self-explanatory, really, but when Moriarty's voice started playing she listened – who knew what kind of rules the twisted man had come up with now?

"_You've been here more than twelve hours now chickies; and I don't see any knights in shining armour. Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?_" He chuckled. "_It's like no-one cares._"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. Sally clenched her fists and waited for him to finish.

"_Behind the target are a pair of industrial earmuffs and a roll of duct tape. This is where it gets complicated for you – between you you're only going to have one mouth and one set of ears. Isn't this fun? Like someone forgot the other parts and ended up making the wrong faces?_" He paused to chuckle. "_You can choose who has what, but the good sergeant has to actually fire the arrow, and you, Sherlock baby, cannot touch the arrow or the bow. The part of the target you hit will determine which door you go through; a yellow will lead to something simple, but the outer colours you might want to avoid. There's no time limit, but take care to make sure I don't get bored, or I might introduce some other more…interesting elements._"

There was a click and the bastard was gone. Sherlock retrieved the duct tape and the earmuffs whilst she was still deciding whether to punch a wall or not, and his mouth was pressed into such a thin line she could barely see it. It seemed that silence had become a place of safety for them; a sort of no-man's land where neither of them could be offended.

She knew he'd need to give her instructions at where to point the arrow, because her short-sightedness was going to be a pretty big disadvantage here. She accepted the fact, and took the duct tape. Sherlock nodded and snapped the earmuffs over his head before helping her tape her mouth closed. Her breathing became horribly constricted immediately, and she vowed to get this thing over with as quickly as possible.

"Right," said Sherlock, as she picked up the arrow and bow. He was speaking too loudly, trying to compensate for the fact that right now he couldn't hear a thing. "Do you need instructions on how to load the bow?"

She shook her head; she'd been a girl guide, and she retained some memory of how to manage the weapon. Her archery skills were probably better than that of the average person on the street, but here everything rested on them. Her fingers were cold and clumsy, the stiffness that had crept into them from the previous room still affecting her like it had sunk into her bones.

She dropped the arrow twice, but finally it was fitted. Sherlock nodded and pointed forwards. "The arrow's very slightly bent, so aim to the left a bit." She did so, shifting round so her feet were slightly apart and her back straight. Old instincts were slow returning, but she'd have to hope the stance was right. There was something nagging in the back of her mind, something about the duct tape and the earmuffs…

Before she could grasp the thought Sherlock was speaking again, and she had to return her attention to the arrow; the target itself had blurred edges, and she knew that without her glasses her vision skewed too much for her to be able to make the shot without his help.

"A little to the right…up…no, too much…" She shifted with his instructions even though her arm was beginning to get sore, and waited impatiently for him to go and check the target, and stand in front of the arrow with one eye closed. She had no idea what he was doing, but it wasn't as if he'd be able to hear her even if she could complain, and the tape prevented her from mouthing anything to him.

"Alright." Sherlock took a deep breath, and she vaguely registered that his teeth were still chattering together. "Go."

She nodded, and took a second to focus on the target, and keep her cold hands steady and in the position Sherlock had indicated. And then, just as she was about to release the arrow, there was a loud burst of sound that exploded in her eardrums and made her hands jerk in reflex. The arrow went astray and, although it still hit the target, it was right on the edge of the white, about as far away from the centre as possible.

The noise vanished as soon as it had begun, and before Sherlock had ripped off his earmuffs it was gone.

"What the hell was that?" he snarled, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, and she realised all along this was what Moriarty had intended, the thing that had been niggling at the back of her mind – why let them choose? Why, when he must have known Sherlock would have taken the earmuffs in order to tell her where to point the arrow? It had been too easy, and all along he'd been meaning to scare her, make the arrow hit the furthest point of the target…

Sherlock was still shouting at her, because he hadn't heard the noise through the industrial strength earmuffs, and she couldn't reach the tape to tell him. She kicked and squirmed, but his grip was tight. He was calling her everything under the sun, from an idiot to worse, and he looked…terrifying.

She managed to reach up a hand past his and yanked the tape from her mouth, ignoring the sting that came with it and shouting at him. "Get the fuck off me you freak!" she snarled, kicking him in the shin until he released her. They stood apart, breathing heavily. "There was a sound, a klaxon or something, just before I fired! Moriarty was tricking us all along!"

He was silent and sullen, his breathing still heavy. Her head was spinning from the shaking, and she felt the ache in her temples beginning to return. It was like the cold had frozen her brain, making her slow and stupid. "Never, ever do that to me again," she said through gritted teeth. "Don't you ever touch me again!" Her voice rose to a shout, and when he didn't reply she sized his head and turned it to face her. "Fucking listen to me when I'm fucking speaking to you! You. Do. Not. Touch. Me. Again."

Eventually he nodded, and she released his head, pushing back so he stumbled. Her anger and fear was boiling up in her, bubbling in her stomach like she'd swallowed something bad. It was like everything she'd said about him before had come true – for a second she'd been sure he was going to hurt her, damage her.

"Sorry." It came out as a small croak she couldn't tell was ashamed or sulky, but it was an apology.

"Just don't come near me."

There was a beep and the door marked white sprang open. She could almost hear Moriarty cackling at them, but she strode through without thinking about it. It was like she had to prove she didn't care she was probably going to die in this place.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews, suggestions or constructive criticism welcome. Did I handle this test well? I spent a long time trying to get it right, but I don't think I quite managed it. **

**To be continued!**


	9. The Fourth Test

******Warnings: Drugs, drug use, mentions of past drug use, violence.**

* * *

This room was small, very small, and the door in the opposite wall obvious. There was nothing in it apart from a single bulb in the ceiling and a small table, which had a syringe lying on it. The liquid inside had a slight yellow tinge, and she recognised it immediately – she'd been a police officer too long not to know heroin when she saw it.

Sherlock entered behind her, and the door clicked shut automatically after him. His eyes took everything in within seconds, and he stepped towards the table, reaching for a piece of paper lying on it – something she'd overlooked, too focused on the drug which, to be honest, terrified her. She'd seen what it did to people.

"What does it say?" he said quietly, handing it to her.

She took it, tight-lipped, and read it aloud; one sentence that she knew was going to cause trouble. "'One of you has to take it.'"

"That's all?"

She flipped the note over to check the other side, and nodded. "Alright. So who takes it?"

He looked surprised at her getting straight to the point, and combated it with his own blunt attitude. "Me, of course."

She crossed her arms, unsure why she was resisting – she certainly didn't want to take it. "Why? You were an addict, did you take it before?"

He inclined his head. "I took _everything _before." She noted the slight frown that had appeared between his eyes. "But I'm clean now."

Sally reached for the syringe. "I know. That's why I should take it, right? Because if you get back into it there's going to be hell to pay."

He batted her hand away. "No! You could get addicted just as easily as I did, and you could lose your job."

The fact they'd gone from hating one another to trying to protect each other wasn't fully registering, and she laughed. "Do you think I give a damn about my job right now?"

"You will," he said. "When we get out of here, you will. Let me-"

She pushed him backwards. "Anyone would think you wanted to take it! Is that it, desperate to be high again?"

It was a low blow; one she could see affected him. To be fair he didn't lay a hand on her, but the air became immediately cold. "I wouldn't wish go back to those days."

She was glad he'd seen sense, and was about to reach and take the syringe, which lay between them as deadly as a loaded gun; her hands were trembling, she was terrified. How much was too much for her? What if she dropped dead straight away?

Sherlock pushed her out of the way with such force she staggered backwards, and before she could stop him he had the needle in his hands. "No!" she shouted. "You said you didn't want to…" He dodged away from her, around the table, keeping out of her reach.

"Neither do you. Besides, you're more likely to die from a dose, if you haven't got any resilience to it. And trust me; once you've taken it, it never really goes away. I wouldn't put anyone through that. Not even Anderson."

"No!" she shouted again, uselessly – she knew she wouldn't be able to stop him unless she brought it down to a full-on fight, and they couldn't afford to waste any energy. She was forced to watch, fuming and panicking, as he pulled off his belt and wrapped it around his arm, tightening until the veins stood out. The sight made her shudder slightly. "What if you…what if you die?"

His smile was stretched and painful as he found a vein and stabbed into it. "I'll be fine."

She was too late to reach him, and he threw the needle away, looking slightly triumphant, but gritting his teeth. She heard the hated thing clatter into a corner, and moved towards him, unsure what to do. She'd dealt with high people before, but right now…she didn't know what to think.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said. "You're stupid. You're going to go through withdrawal again and everything."

Heroin was fast-acting, but he wasn't quite all gone from her yet. "Would've been ten times worse for you." His speech was slurring, and he giggled slightly. "Silly innit? This whole thing's bloody ridiculous."

"Yeah," she said. "You're ridiculous as well. I hate you."

"I hate you too," he said, almost as if they were exchanging gifts. "Your hair's all fuzzy."

Before she could answer, or think what to do next, there was that horrible click again; it made her jump, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice, swaying on his feet and generally looking like even more of a lunatic than usual.

"_Now one of you is suitably prepared,_" came Moriarty's voice over the hidden speakers, "_it's time for your test!_ _I tell you, this one's very straightforward – all you have to do is take on my man to get through the door. And don't delay too long!_" Uncertainty shivered across her spine and down to her fingers and toes. Take on who? What were the rules? Moriarty's instructions were vague, and they left her scrambling for answers she couldn't find. It unnerved her – which was, of course, probably exactly what he wanted.

There was another beep and the door opposite to the one they'd come through opened. A man stood in it, the first human besides Sherlock she'd seen in hours, and it wasn't a reassuring sight; he was large, massive even, nearing seven feet, and broad. His muscles were large and knotted, his knuckles looked calloused and his nose was slightly squashed – an ex-boxer looked likely.

He didn't do anything, but he didn't move from the doorway. She knew that they could sit here for hours and he wouldn't budge, and if he had to move Moriarty would simply put someone else there. She hadn't known Moriarty very long, but already it was like she had a very loose grasp of what he was like; too loose to know what he was really planning, but enough for her to figure out this test, which seemed rather simple. Far from easy, but simple in a brutish sort of way.

The clock was ticking, but she took one look at Sherlock and knew he was going to be no use to her in this, slumped against the wall and staring into space, smiling a small smile. A sigh escaped her lips as she knelt in front of him.

"Sherlock," she said. There was little response, so she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes; the pupils were so constricted she could barely see them. "Listen to me now, this is important." She lowered her voice to a whisper so the man couldn't overhear them. "I'm going to try and lure this man away from the door, and when it's clear I want you to run through. Don't worry about me, I'll try and follow, and then we can lock him in here."

Sherlock nodded like he understood; she only had to hope that intellect was good for something, even as high as a kite. She doubted he'd be able to run fast, if at all, but there was no time, and the man was looking at them suspiciously, so she moved back to the centre of the room. His eyes followed her.

"Hey you!" she shouted, playing for time, looking around. The police taught her techniques for tangling with a much larger opponent, but it was going to be tricky in such a confined space, exhausted as she was. He didn't respond to her, so she stepped forwards.

It started as soon as she was in range – he punched out as hard as she could, and she got out of the way in time only because she was expecting it; even so it glanced off her shoulder and left them both off balance. As she staggered on a circle the man tried to tackle her from behind, lifting her up, but she dropped her hips just as she'd been trained to and the extra weight delayed him, giving her enough time to stomp on his toes with the heels of her chunky shoes and elbow him in the stomach.

Any normal person would have gone down winded, but he seemed to be as hard as iron, jolting her right up to the shoulder. Before she could react a heavy arm seized her and rammed her into the wall – the breath was driven out of her body and she choked for air. Her knees gave out and she dropped to the floor, rolling onto her side.

The man didn't attack again, but retreated to his position in the doorway, leaving her to recover herself and slink back to the corner where Sherlock was slumped; he seemed not to notice her until she was right in front of him, but when he did he stirred very slightly and blinked a couple of times.

"You 'lright?"

"I'm fine," she said through a general haze of pain mixed with adrenaline and rage, spitting blood out of her mouth; she'd bitten her lip. "I want you to stay here."

"But…you're bleeding…"

The unsure note to his voice was almost endearing, but she knew he'd be no good in this fight; he could barely register her. "It's like a game Sherlock. We've been playing games all this time, right?" He nodded, but his eyes slid shut – she wondered if he was going to fall asleep. That'd just be great. "Don't move."

She tried this time to catch the man off guard, walking round to the edge of the room as if she were going to try and pick up the fallen needle, and then spinning at the last second and seizing the table, throwing it with all her power at his him. It travelled too slowly to hit his stomach, where she'd been aiming, but it landed on his ribs as he moved, in a lucky blow that splintered the flimsy legs and left rips in his clothing.

She wasted no time, diving forwards and landing on top of him, hitting everywhere with her elbows and knees. The groin was what she was aiming for, but he'd curled his legs in a way that protected it, so she settled for scratching at his eyes. He was snarling, she was shouting, shouting at Sherlock to run now, get through the door whilst she had him pinned – it wasn't going to be for much longer.

Sherlock's footsteps sounded, uneven and shuffling, but there, so she focused her attention back on her opponent as they grappled for power – she was fairly strong, but not enough to beat him, and already felt herself slipping over as he rolled to get on top of her. It happened so suddenly – one second she was fighting, the next he had her on her back with her arms pinned to the floor, panting.

She wriggled and tried to get her legs free, but he sat on her knees with almost enough force to break her legs, and she screamed. Sherlock staggered towards them, swaying crazily and using the wall for support, but instead of going through the door he reached out and tried to land a punch on the man's neck. The movement was so weak and slow it had no effect – their opponent didn't even bat an eye. Her wrists were burning as he gripped them tighter and tighter. It was a stalemate – in this position she couldn't do anything to him, but he couldn't shift to damage her further.

Adrenaline was beginning to wear off now, and she was too exhausted to do anything but wait. She'd lost sight of Sherlock and wondered if he'd passed out. The floor was very uncomfortable, and she felt that if this went on much longer she really was going to end up with two broken legs, but it seemed like there wasn't much she could do apart from spit in his face, which she did with great gusto, even though it did nothing to help her.

Just as she was considering giving up and surrendering Sherlock was back. He didn't so much attack as sway right into the two of them, almost as if he were going to fall, but it was enough for the man to release one of her arms to bat him away. One hand was all she needed – she reached out and grasped the nearest weapon, the empty syringe, and rammed it into the man's shoulder. The needle was sharp and sudden enough to make him scream, and he automatically reeled back, releasing her other arm to claw at it. She wriggled free, toppling the man as she shifted under him.

"Come on!" she shouted, grabbing Sherlock – forced almost into lifting him by his lack of responsiveness – and making for the door, pushing him before her; he looked as lost as a sheep away from the flock, eyes half-closed and feet dragging as he staggered. Behind her the man wrenched the needle from his body and set off after them like a charging bull, and they were going slowly, too slowly for it to be any good. In a last ditch attempt she practically threw Sherlock through the door before her; he fell inside, but she was still too far behind.

A fist slammed into the back of her head and she was vaguely aware of being thrown forwards, through what she knew must be the doorway. There was a vague sense of relief – they'd passed after all, they'd got around the man – before everything went black.

* * *

**AN: I'd like to thank swidellypoop who helped me to make changes to this so it was more realistic when it came to Sherlock's reaction to the drug. Hopefully it's a little better now.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews and suggestions very welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	10. The First Interval

John arrived home a few hours earlier than he'd intended – a screaming row with your sister tended to result in swift exits through slammed doors. He was tired, hungry and in a boiling rage, and he wanted Sherlock to be there and make it better.

He made his way up the stairs slowly and scrabbled for his keys in his pocket as he went. As he pushed open the door and stepped through there was a crunch under his foot and he looked down.

It was a phone – Sherlock's phone, lying there innocently at the top of the stairs, face down. He hoped he hadn't damaged it, and picked it up to examine it closely. It was working perfectly, and he breathed a sigh of relief – Sherlock would have killed him if it had been broken. He called out, into the flat, and for a few seconds expected to hear a reply; but then he saw Sherlock's coat and shoes were missing.

It was strange for Sherlock to leave his phone behind, but John assumed it must have fallen out of his pocket if he left the house in a hurry. Most likely a crime scene then, if he'd been too excited to know it, but he checked the last calls and texts just to see. There was a text from Lestrade's number, and read simply '_New crime scene – please meet me at the yard as soon as possible._' Straight and to the point, just like Lestrade he thought, smiling. Better call him and tell Sherlock he'd left his phone.

There were a couple of seconds of ringing and then Lestrade picked up. "_Hello_?"

"Hey, it's John," he said. "Sherlock dropped his phone outside the flat, you'd better tell him."

There was a second of silence and then Lestrade spoke up, sounding confused. That should have started John worrying straight away, but for some reason it didn't – maybe he was just like every fool out there, feeling safe around policemen.

"_Why are you ringing me? Is he out?"_

"You texted him," John replied, wondering if the crime had been solved so quickly Lestrade had forgotten – it was like his brain was blocking bad thoughts from his mind. There was an explanation…right? "You said there was a crime scene."

Another silence. "_I didn't text him. We haven't had any crimes Sherlock would be interested in today, unless you count Donovan being late for her shift again_."

John felt his heart stutter and pick up at double pace. His breathing became heavier, and his fingers clenched tightly around the phone. "It says it came from your mobile. You sure you haven't had anything new?"

"_Perfectly sure. John, what are you saying?"_

"Sherlock's missing, and the last thing on his phone was a text from you, hours and hours ago."

"_You've checked the flat?_"

"Yes – his coat's gone, and he's not replying when I call. He can't be here."

There were muffled voices from the other end of the line and Lestrade spoke in a worried tone. "_No-one's seen him here either. But I don't understand why it came from my phone; I swear I didn't text him._"

John ran down the stairs with the phone still pressed to his ear, trying not to let panic consume him completely. "I'm coming to the station now. Something's wrong, I know it."

* * *

Lestrade met John in his office, looking tired and harassed. "What's going on? What if Sherlock's playing some kind of stupid joke, I wouldn't put it past him…"

For a second John realised what Sherlock must feel all the time – how dim and stupid people were. Why did no-one understand something was wrong, why was no-one searching the streets right now? Why was no-one listening to the terrified screaming in his head that rocketed through his limbs in a strong, thrumming panic and the desire to do something? He didn't trust this.

"Sherlock wouldn't," he said. "We agreed that he would always text me when he was going out – after the pool we said it was best."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? How on earth did you get him to agree to something like that?"

Of course, none of them knew. None of them knew that Sherlock, when he was with John, was extremely possessive. And when they weren't together he got all sorts of stupid ideas into his head, and so they'd devised this system of texting their locations to each other. It was quick, simple and fairly cheap, and a way of telling each other they were both safe.

"He hasn't let me down yet. Just please…trust me on this one, I know."

Lestrade slumped back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Say I do accept what you're saying as being true and Sherlock's been kidnapped or something – where would we begin looking?"

"You're a police force!" John burst out. "Use the bloody CCTV or something; see if you can find anything. Anything unusual."

Lestrade sighed and picked up the phone. John reached for his mobile and dialled Mycroft.

"Sherlock's missing," he said when it was picked up, before the man could say anything. "I don't care what you do; I want you to find him. It has to be Moriarty; I can feel it in my stomach. Call me when you have something."

He hung up. Lestrade was staring at him. "Who was that?"

"Long story. Did you get anything?" His heart was beginning to slow down now, now that he was doing something, little as it was.

"I've got a few people working on the footage, but it'll take some time. Are…are you sure about this?"

John kicked the desk with enough force to topple a pot of pens. "Of course I'm sure! I know, alright? I just know. Like when a mother hears a car screech and she knows it's her kid that's in trouble." Lestrade stared at him and John wondered if he hadn't gone too far in his panic.

"Are you saying Sherlock's like your kid?"

John let out a long breath to calm himself. "I just know him well." He considered for a second. "Who else had access to your phone? Where do you keep it?"

Lestrade pushed his hair out of his face with a long sigh. "It's usually in my pocket. But it was warmish today; I took my jacket off and left it on the back of the chair. Any of the people in these offices could have snuck in and got it whilst I was going in and out."

"But the text was sent at a specific time," John said, checking Sherlock's phone. "Three in the afternoon. Where were you then?"

Lestrade considered. "I think I got lunch then. We had a lot of false or nonsense calls today, and I got mixed up in paperwork, so I ate later on; it's all a bit blurred to be honest. But I was down in the canteen for at least half an hour."

The phone rang and Lestrade picked it up. John saw his face fall, and felt his own heart sink with it. Lestrade hung up with a shake of his head.

"The CCTV's blank. It went down in that area just before the text was sent; we thought it was just a routine circuit failure. There's nothing we can do from that front."

"So we work out who was here at three," said John, leaning against the wall. "Do you have a-"

He was interrupted by Anderson, who charged through the door looking irritated. John felt an instant stab of annoyance in the man's presence, but he knew that was just because of the animosity between the man and Sherlock – he tended to try and keep an open mind around him.

"Sally's still not answering," said Anderson, not waiting for any of them to allow him to speak. "It's not like her not to answer, and I know she was late last week, but she said it was because her alarm broke."

He looked worried; the same kind of worried John had been harbouring all this time. He wondered how well Anderson knew Donovan, and he wondered if they were close, no matter how much of a dick Anderson could be, if they had this same instinct then something was wrong.

It didn't take long for someone to be sent round to check – no reply when they knocked on the door, and the man got hold of a spare key from a neighbour. Donovan's flat was empty. A nearby resident reported she had got into a cab just after three and someone else who'd happened to bump into her in the hallway said she'd been grumbling about her oven being broken. Anderson reported she'd never reached her favourite café.

It wasn't much to go on, but coupled with Sherlock missing it was enough for the CCTV to be checked again, this time for her area. It too was blank.

* * *

Lestrade soon had his office full of frantic people – John was pacing, Anderson was shouting and the phone kept ringing. The word was spreading – Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan were missing, taken at roughly the same time and no-one was comfortable. It was like a suffocating blanket had been drawn around the whole place, and John knew he wasn't helping by adding to it.

He still couldn't stop.

Anderson seemed to be compensating for his worry by being even more of a dick than usual, and John resisted the urge to punch him about twice every minute. Lestrade was getting redder and redder, and Mycroft still hadn't rung back.

Desperate for air he stepped outside, breathing in the smell of the city with a long sigh. He wanted Sherlock back. He knew what Moriarty was, and even if no-one believed it yet this thing had the man's handiwork all over it.

There was a shuffling sound beside him and he turned to see Lestrade with a plastic cup of water. John took it and sipped gratefully.

"I've got Anderson working on the names of the people who checked into the building at around three."

"What about the officers already there?" said John. "Surely they're more suspect?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "We can't just go accusing them; they're police, they put their whole lives into their work. Any mistake could ruin their careers, so we're going through them only as a last resort."

John didn't like it, but he had to accept it, even though he felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Mostly he was a rational man – apart from when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade's eyes told him that maybe he'd guessed – but he didn't say anything. "What on earth would Moriarty want with them anyway?" he said. "Sherlock I can understand, but Sally's never been involved in any of his games."

John shook his head. "Moriarty likes to play with people – if he knows Sherlock and Donovan don't get along then he might use that to his advantage. Make them kill each other or something." It came out more bitter than he intended. Lestrade gingerly put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Sally might not be as brilliant as Sherlock, but she can handle herself. Wherever they are, I'm sure they're working together."

* * *

**So, they've realised - but will they be able to find Sally and Sherlock before it's too late?**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	11. The Second Rest, Part One

Sally's body felt like someone had dropped fifty tonnes of lead onto it when she clawed herself back from unconsciousness. Her legs were sore, her chest was killing her every time she breathed and her head more than ached – iron spikes were probably the best description. Red hot, iron, bloody spikes.

At least she wasn't lying on something hard, such as the floor; she was thankful for small mercies right now. She reached out a hand and touched her head, then pushed herself upright. Her hair was tangled in a way that was going to take several combs to redeem, and when she rose so did her stomach, lurching inside her and rolling around as if someone was turning a wheel. She retched but didn't bring anything up apart from saliva. She felt disgusting.

She rose and staggered, blinded by her headache, forcing her eyes open and rubbing at them. How long had she been down? The whole of the previous test was blurry and distorted, and she knew there was something missing from it, something she was forgetting…

"Sherlock!" she gasped, blinking. Her vision remained stupidly blurry, but she couldn't tell whether it was the lack of contacts or concussion. "Sherlock, answer me!"

The light was dim, thank goodness, and when she looked around she saw she was in a room about the size of a largish hotel bedroom, only without a bed; she'd been lying on a sofa. There were two of them, facing each other, one purple and one brown. An open door in front of her revealed there to be a bathroom here, or at least a toilet and sink, which relieved her slightly. There was nothing else in the room apart from a screen on the far wall, and this was blank and surrounded by tough plastic. The walls were painted a sickly yellow colour, but at least it was warm. It looked safe. Sort of.

She forced herself to stop staring and look for Sherlock. She didn't see him anywhere, which worried her. Why wasn't he answering?

"Sherlock?"

She strained her ears to listen and there! A small moan coming from behind the other sofa. She almost tripped over in her effort to reach him, leaned over the side of the settee.

He looked awful. There was no other way of describing it – his skin was greyish and sweaty, his hair matted damply to his forehead. He had one hand thrown over his eyes, and the other clenched into a fist by his side, and had curled himself up into a small ball of human misery.

Withdrawal must have set in already. That meant she had to have been unconscious for hours, long enough for the dose to wear off and the cravings to set in. He was shivering, but burned under her touch when she sat down beside him and pulled him upright. He gave a small cry and clawed at her, latching onto her hand so tightly she thought he was going to break it.

"Shh," she whispered as soothingly as she could manage with her fingers in a vice-like grip. He had his legs pulled up into his chest and the shivering went on and on. "Shh, it's alright, I promise."

"Thought you weren't going to wake up," he muttered. "Don't leave me here."

"I won't." Hell, she didn't like Sherlock Holmes, but she knew that it would have been her in this position if he hadn't been such an idiot and taken it himself. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," he moaned. "It all aches. All of it. And I promised John, I said I'd never take, never…" He turned and buried his head in her shoulder, and she reached up automatically to put a hand in his hair and stroke it gently. It was soaking wet.

"Do you think you'll be more comfortable on the sofa?" she said softly. This wasn't fair – she wanted someone to comfort her, she wanted to soothe her own aches and pains, but instead she was saddled with this. For about the millionth time she wished Moriarty would just drop dead.

He hesitated, and then nodded. She helped him to his feet and around to the front of the sofa before lowering him onto it; he tensed as he landed and she recalled something about increased sensitivity in withdrawal.

"Don't tell John," Sherlock rasped. "He'll go away, he'll go away…"

She needed to pee again, but she couldn't leave him like this. She wondered where this insecurity came from – Sherlock was new to relationships, yes, but the man was usually insufferably arrogant. Logically he should probably think John was the lucky one, but it was clear he didn't; the man was terrified.

"John won't leave," she said firmly. "We'll tell him you had no choice, and he'll understand."

Sherlock whimpered, but let go of her hand and curled up again, eyes dropping closed as he slowly began to fall asleep. She breathed a sigh of relief and gingerly moved away.

In the bathroom were two glasses and she ran some water out of the sink for herself and gulped greedily – her mouth tasted like ashes. It was a luxury to suddenly have all the water she wanted, and Sherlock was going to need it at the rate he was sweating. There was a blue plastic box by the loo, and after she'd gone she dragged it curiously through to the place she automatically referred to as the lounge, because of the sofas; there was more room there.

She snapped off the catches and peered inside. It was food – crunch bars and snacks mostly, but there were also chocolate bars and dried fruits. She wasn't hungry right now, but she knew she would be later, and it made her wonder; there was enough food here for them to live for a week if they were careful – was Moriarty intending to leave them here for a week?

The thought made her shudder. Just as she replaced the lid on the box there was a second of static and then the screen came to life; the London news. She squinted to read the captions, as there wasn't any sound, and in the end she stood with her nose pressed right against the protective plastic covering in order to read.

There was something about murders and general irrelevant information and then suddenly the sound went on, and she jumped back to watch the blurs flit across the screen.

"_It has been reported that Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Sergeant Sally Donovan have been abducted from their residences some hours ago; it is believed the two disappearances are connected. We head to the DI Lestrade…_"

And then there was Greg, The first thing she thought was he looked tired – he looked so tired. He explained what had happened, how they'd been found missing, and that if anyone had any information they should step forwards. It was standard procedure, but it made her feel better to know that someone cared – they were looking.

She wondered why Moriarty chose to show her this. False hope? Maybe it was just part of his game.

And then there was John, looking even more haggard than Greg. He was talking to a reporter, and again urging people to come forwards. There was a kind of desperation in his voice, something strained unnerving – he was usually so calm.

Sherlock cracked open an eye and cried out John's name, so she made her way over and did her best to comfort him, but he was pretty much inconsolable, half-delirious and moaning to himself. She knew her presence just wasn't the same, and in his confused state seeing John on the television just made it worse.

She lost track of how the investigation was going, too busy making sure Sherlock didn't injure himself, and by the time she had him settled down the screen was black again. It was annoying – she would have liked to see how close they were. And then she realised she probably wouldn't know even if she had heard; she didn't even know if they were still in London. This house, or prison, or whatever it was, could be anywhere. She supposed they had to still be in England, because Moriarty hadn't had time to transport them out of the country, but that didn't narrow it down a whole lot. She knew how long these searches sometimes took.

Sherlock dropped back into an uneasy sleep, and she slid down to the floor with her head pressed against her knees. She still hurt. She was going to die. She was going to be tortured, and she was going to die, not that anyone would care. They would all run around after Sherlock, wondering what they would do without their great detective. They would forget her, the sergeant who was just brought in for the fun of it.

During the tests she'd been high on adrenaline, running blind and not caring, but now it was like she'd been dropped from a great and hazy height onto cold reality that ate at her slowly. Being a police officer had put her in a couple of life and death situations before, but never had it been so drawn-out. She wasn't even a hostage, something she might have been able to handle – all hostages have some hope of escape. She was a toy.

She looked at Sherlock, curled on the sofa and wondered how he'd managed to lift her in the condition he'd been in earlier. With a great effort, probably. This whole time the thought had been in the back of her mind that she didn't want to die with the freak, a man she hated, a man who didn't care, a whatsit-functioning sociopath. But as soon as John had come into the picture Sherlock had changed – or maybe he'd just let that mask slip for a few seconds.

It was like everything she'd ever hoped or expected was just falling away from her, leaving bones and nothing else. That trip she'd been planning to visit her parents? It wasn't going to happen. She'd been saving up money and her weeks of leave for a holiday, and now that wasn't going to happen either. She'd just assumed there would be the time, and now that was slipping through her fingers as fast as sand.

It was the first time in years she'd cried herself to sleep.

* * *

**Yeah, I know, nothing much happened in this part. I'm sorry.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews or comments welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	12. The Second Rest, Part Two

The light that burst on her eyes was too bright and vivid – a burning sun flattened into strange shapes by her skewed vision. She was floating on the water, bobbing up and down, and terrified, but she didn't know by what. She kept swimming, but wherever she went there was only ocean, and she had the sickening feeling she was going round in circles. Where was the end? She had to get to the beach; she had to do something quickly…

A fin rose out of the water in front of her, and she paddled to get away, but she was too slow. She knew she was dreaming, all she had to do was imagine herself somewhere else – she did it all the time, when she dreamt about missing the train, or being chased, imagined a teleport and used it.

But this time it wasn't working, and the fear was just the same as it always was, bursting through her in nauseating waves. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't move, and then she shark was on her, grabbing her arm and biting, shaking it back and forth between its teeth.

She woke with a small cry only to come face to face with Sherlock, who was pulling on her arms, looking even wilder than usual. The shivering was less, but his eyes were slightly hazy, and there was still a sheen of sweat over his upper lip.

"What?" she groaned. At least he looked more lucid than last time, but it didn't compensate from the ache in her neck which had been caused by the fact she'd fallen asleep on the floor.

"Do you have it?" he said. "Did he give you some? I need some, I need it now!" His voice rose shrilly at the end, and although she knew he wasn't shaking her out of anger it still scared her.

"What?" she muttered, still tired. Her eyes were gluey from tears and she was sure she was coming down with the flu or something. "What are you on about now?"

"I know he did," Sherlock snarled, standing up and beginning to pace, up and down, up and down, until it made her dizzy. "I know it's hidden here, I need some now!"

Oh. The drugs. He was craving the drugs again.

"I don't have any. Moriarty didn't leave them." She was stuck to speaking in short sentences, because she hadn't had her morning cup of tea yet. Was it morning? She had no idea.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and delved into the blue box, snapping it open and emptying the contents, rifling through them with a feverish speed. She uttered a cry of protest, but he didn't break any of the bags open and simply moved onto the sofa cushions without a word. The room was filled with his ragged breathing, and it made her uncomfortable. What if there actually was something hidden here? She didn't want him to go high on her again, not when Moriarty could spring a test on them at any moment, but she thought that if he did manage to get his hands on heroin she wouldn't be able to stop him taking it.

He tore the whole room apart, looking. She sat and watched him, feeling helpless and lethargic, and slowly ate a bar of chocolate. Within an hour the whole place was turned upside-down, and he'd found nothing.

Then he went and threw up in the toilet.

She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. This was normal – how many drunks, druggies and weirdoes had she dealt with when on duty? Lots. Here was just another one, albeit a more personal one.

She knocked on the door and asked if he was alright, but only received a torrent of abuse that made her cross enough to kick something. Why did no-one ever realise she was just trying to bloody help?

With a great effort, she swallowed the rage. Then, just because it'd be stupid not to, she went to the door they'd come in by and tried to handle. Locked, of course, but worth a try.

Sherlock emerged from the toilet, looking pale and wan, and with something clasped in his hand; she recognised a new light in his eyes that spoke of a mystery.

"When is your next menstruation due?" he said.

Her mouth fell open and she gaped for a couple of seconds. "I'm sorry?" She was too thrown off balance to even be offended – this was weird. And there was a lot of weird in her life right now, too much to be comfortable with.

"Your period, when is it due?" he repeated slowly, as if she were the stupidest person in existence. She felt a blush rising in her cheeks.

"Look, you can't just ask…"

He snorted irritably. "Oh, please. I'm not being a pervert, or whatever other ideas are running through your head right now." He shoved the item in his hand in her face, and now it was in her range of vision she recognised it immediately.

"Tampons? Where have you been hiding these?"

He threw himself on one of the sofas without bothering to replace the cushions, pulling at his hair. "They were behind the toilet pipes. Now, if we know when your period is due then we know roughly how long we have to stay here."

It was starting to scare her now. "How on earth would Moriarty know exactly when…you know?"

"No doubt he knows when you pick up your monthly prescription."

Her face felt like it was on fire – Sherlock may be shameless, but she certainly wasn't. She didn't need him to know that she had heavy periods, or when she had them. It wasn't the sort of thing usually discussed. How many books or films did you see where someone had to suddenly rush off and change their tampons? None.

"How do you know?"

"I saw you taking it once at a crime scene. Now, am I going to get an answer out of you before I have to go and be sick again?"

She buried her face in her hands and smoothed her hair. "Roughly? Three days, max."

Moriarty knew her monthly cycle. That was something no-one else had any idea of, something private, and he knew. He knew everything about her. It wasn't just creepy, it was gross. It was disgusting. And it terrified her.

Sherlock was looking at her uncertainly, so she readjusted her features into a vague and hopefully reassuring smile. "Sorry. Just…it's a bit…"

"Personal?"

"Yeah."

"Moriarty's always personal – he got my only friend and strapped a bomb to his chest."

She'd heard that, but she hadn't been sure if it was true. She didn't know if half of what Sherlock came out with was true.

"What did he say?"

"Moriarty? That he'd burn the heart of me." Sherlock tipped his head back and smiled, but his hands were trembling again. "I don't think he's quite managed it yet. God I need a hit…"

She glanced at the television screen, where John had been standing a few hours before, and thought how hard it must be for the two of them. Then, because he seemed in an open kind of mood which she doubted she'd ever see again, she asked.

"How did you two even…you know."

He shrugged. "It was quite easy really – nothing dramatic. After that night at the pool it just clicked for both of us, we went to dinner and that was that. I did some research and somehow we've managed to keep it together."

"Does John know? That it's the first time you've done this, I mean."

He smiled and tucked his knees into his chest. His face was paler than it had been a few minutes ago, and he was turning slightly green. "He's asked a couple of times – I informed him I was perfectly capable and we left it at that."

"Me and Anderson," she said, because she needed to tell someone before she died. "Wasn't ever anything…proper. I mean, he's a dick sometimes. A lot of the times. But we're both getting older and frustrated and his wife ditched him for someone else, and I hadn't dated anyone in ages and it just…happened. I stopped it after a couple of times – he's just not what I want."

Sherlock inclined his head; the shivering was worse. "You'll find someone, I'm sure. Sometime."

"I know," she sighed. "I know. That's what they all say."

Sherlock curled up on the sofa and shut his eyes without speaking, and she was left to wander aimlessly around the room. There was nothing to do. No-one to talk to. But now, thanks to Sherlock, she had some idea of how long they were going to have to stay here. Up to a week. She could manage that – right?

* * *

**And again, nothing much happens. I am building up to something, promise. **

**Thanks for reading; reviews and comments welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	13. The Second Interval

"We've got him!" Lestrade said, bursting into John's flat and speaking almost before he'd opened the door. "The man who used my phone; when we questioned the officers someone remembered seeing one of the cleaners in my office at three. We went through our staff records and found he didn't actually work at the Yard."

John's heart gave a jump. It'd been three days now, three whole days without Sherlock, during which time he'd paced up and down until he was too exhausted to carry on and fallen onto the sofa under a blanket until he felt ready to pace again. He hadn't slept at all, and the blanket was still wrapped around his shoulders.

"What did he say?" John replied, already throwing a t-shirt on and getting ready to hurry out the door.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing, as of yet. We couldn't get anything out of him, but then someone showed up and said he was Sherlock's brother and took him away; he had the authorisation, so we had to let him go. He told me to get you and follow on behind."

John didn't need telling twice, racing down the stairs with Lestrade in tow and sliding into the black car with a sense of de-ja-vu – he saw these cars far too often. There wasn't anyone there to explain, and the driver said nothing; Lestrade looked around with a nervous air when he joined him.

"I feel like James Bond."

John gave a laugh even he could tell was far too strained. "That's how I feel sometimes – running around London chasing bloody criminals. It's mad."

He glanced at the passing scenery and drummed his fingers on the seat – ever since he'd discovered Sherlock missing he'd been consumed by a kind of reckless energy that thrummed through him every waking second, and he knew it wouldn't go away until they found them.

"Do you know Sherlock's brother?" Lestrade said, cutting through his drumming.

"I've met him once or twice," he replied. "If you think Sherlock's an annoying prick you won't like him at all, but he gets things done. We'll probably have our information within an hour."

Lestrade looked edgy, and John supposed he was worried about his job and 'unconventional methods' or whatever it was. He, personally, didn't give a shit what they did to anyone who'd had a hand in this. His mind's eye was constantly haunted with images of blood and dark hair, his army days mixed with his current anxiety.

They were ushered into a grey, bleak building with no character at all and brought down in a lift to a corridor with a single door at the end. Mycroft stood outside, looking as if butter wouldn't melt; only the way his hair was sticking up slightly gave any indication he was just as frazzled as John.

"I want you to interrogate him, John," Mycroft said simply as soon as they came into view. "He's the kind of man who won't break easily – not in time for us to reach Sherlock."

"Why…um…why do you need John to do it?" Lestrade murmured, looking puzzled. "I mean, don't you have…people?"

Mycroft gave him a superior sort of smile. "None of them has John's emotion. Emotion is what we need right now; anger, fury, all those feelings people keep inside. We've managed to get him to tell us who he sent the text to, and when, and for what purpose, but he's only revealed things he knows we already know. It's time to push it up a notch."

John didn't say anything, only squared his shoulders, strode straight past Mycroft and put his hand on the door. Before he could push it open a hand descended on his shoulder and stopped him.

"Whatever you do," Mycroft whispered in his ear. "Don't kill him."

John pushed past and burst into the room. There was a single guard there, with an earpiece and a blank expression, who didn't react at his sudden entrance. The room itself was dim and if he'd been the one strapped to the chair like their prisoner was, he would have been intimidated. The man bound to the seat was thin, but he looked strong, and there was a determined glint in his eyes, despite the fact one of them was blackened and there was a cut across his cheek that was slowly oozing a streak of red that dripped onto the floor with the occasional patter.

The man took one look at John, in his old baggy t-shirt and his rumpled trousers, and John knew he was taking in the fact he was short and that didn't look particularly strapping. People always did that when they saw him out of uniform – he was the kind of person they overlooked.

The prisoner laughed. He threw back his head and laughed, and John snapped. He didn't care who this man was, or where he'd come from, or how he'd been caught, or even if he was the right person. John was tired, and hungry, and he hadn't washed in hours, but that was nothing, because he wanted Sherlock back, and this man was laughing.

He seized the man's shirt and dragged it up, taking the chair he was bound to with him and lifting him as far as he could off the ground, so they were face to face. The man's eyes went wide, and he stopped laughing, but the shock was over quickly and his face lapsed back into a casual arrogance.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"Oh, you are," John said quietly. "Because you see, I've been told not to kill you. And I was a soldier – I follow orders. So I won't kill you. I'll just take you apart until you tell me where Sherlock is."

He threw the man back down so the chair tipped over and took a step back. Behind him he could feel Lestrade and Mycroft watching, probably through a camera or secret window, but he didn't care. He was raging, as if his limbs were full of hot iron that leant them a deadly weight.

The man glared at him from the floor. "What about you makes you think you can get me to speak?"

It was a taunt, a challenge, and John rose to the occasion. "I'll tell you why," he said, leaning forwards until his face was very close to the man's. "I'm a doctor. I know what each and every one of your bones is called, and how to break them one by one. It could take hours. And you see; this is personal. I miss Sherlock very much, and getting him back is worth far much more to me than breaking your legs. So tell me."

The man remained defiant, so John took his hand and bent one of the fingers back so it was almost – almost – at breaking point. The man let out a whimper, eyeing his hand for a couple of seconds before finally breaking.

"Moriarty!" he said desperately. "Please, that's all I know. Moriarty's at the top of this operation, he's a cons-"

"Consulting criminal," John finished for him. He released the finger, stood up and crossed his arms before against the wall causally, making himself look taller by raising his heels slightly. The man was already on the floor, and maybe he'd start to think his interrogator wasn't so bloody short after all. "I know that. I want to know where Sherlock is."

The man clammed up, shaking his head. John pushed off from the wall and took a carefully measured step. He didn't need to cause pain – he only needed to indicate he was going to. Fear and imagination were much better interrogation methods than pain itself; Mycroft was right. _Emotion _was their weapon, and it was hardly difficult to let the worry inside him change itself to anger, white hot, blaring fury that would have made his hands shake if he hadn't been controlling them.

Another step and the man started to tremble. John remained silent, but unfolded his arms, reaching forwards slightly. A whimper was drawn from the man as John moved as slowly as he could get away with without making the man think he wasn't intending to go through with it. The seconds stretched out, and John could feel his heart pounding. He was two steps away…one…

The man muttered something, and then shook his head. He couldn't move much, trussed too tightly, but he began to rock back and forth as far as he could, trying to edge the chair away. John took the last step more aggressively and the man gave a little shriek that reverberated around the room, thrumming in a satisfying way inside John's head.

He knelt and moved his hand towards the man's wrist, grasping it and waiting a couple of seconds. The bones clicked underneath his fingers.

"Alright!" the man shouted. "I'll tell, I promise just let go!"

John inclined his head and relaxed his grip, but didn't release it entirely. "Go on."

"He's in the countryside somewhere, I don't know, I swear, but I know someone who does, I just don't know the name…"

John tightened his grasp again and the man whimpered and tried to pull away. He felt hollow now – hollow apart from a long and desperate yearning. He wanted this over, he wanted it crushed and dead underfoot, the whole affair, and he was going to get it.

"What's the name?"

"He'll kill me," the man sobbed, more to himself than to John. "He'll kill me, I can't…"

John dug his fingers between the bones of the wrist in a way he knew wouldn't damage, but would hurt. The man whined and struggled.

"Alright! He sells drugs on the street corner near the millennium bridge. That's all I know I swear…he'll be on the corner on Wednesdays, please…"

John let go.

* * *

When he stepped outside the cold hit him with a blast. Lestrade was standing, looking pale, next to Mycroft, who merely seemed satisfied. They were ushered out of the building without a word and pushed into a car. John knew they were probably being sent back home, but hell if he was going to be kept out of this – he'd be on that street corner on Wednesday, waiting, as sure as his name was Watson.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, and John was just beginning to consider a nap when Lestrade spoke.

"You didn't even know who he was, and you just went in there and took him to pieces."

He sounded almost scared. John leaned his head against the window with a thump and decided there was no point in saying he was sorry, because he wasn't.

"I just want Sherlock."

Lestrade shook his head. "I know. But really…now I'm not sure Sherlock's the mad one out of you two."

* * *

**Again, one of those chapters I wasn't so sure about. But I felt it needed to be there.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	14. The Fifth Test, Part One

**Warnings: Some torture. **

* * *

Sally was sitting with her legs up on the arm of the sofa and one of the cushions over her stomach. She ached. She usually did at this time, but that was why she had her prescription. Now though, she didn't, and it was like someone was poking around in her stomach with a large hook – not unbearable, but really not great at all.

Moriarty, it seemed, had been bang-on; she'd started the day after Sherlock had discovered the tampons. For roughly three days now she'd been like this, sitting around and feeling sorry for herself. For three days Sherlock had been either throwing up, fruitlessly tearing the place apart, shouting at her, or asleep and difficult to rouse. Mostly he was just plain insufferable, with a patience span about the length of a flea and an insult ready whenever she said something, so she didn't bother talking. She'd got so used to her short sighted way of seeing the world she could barely remember what it was like to have vision that wasn't blurred and vague.

Sherlock couldn't keep much food down, and although the fact worried her it did mean she'd been able to eat far more than her fair share; she was always hungry at the moment, and there wasn't nearly enough chocolate to satisfy her appetite in one little box. Sherlock stuck mainly to water, never without a glass in his hand, whilst she munched on the food and tried not to feel guilty. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to make him eat, but he tended to bring most of it up anyway, and the rest of the time refused to put anything in his mouth. John was going to kill them both.

He came out of the bathroom with the glass re-filled, and she noticed how, finally, there was a slight growth of stubble around his chin. It was lighter than his hair, and very fine, but made him look older; haggard. She supposed they both looked the worse for wear – her hair was ridiculously tangled and greasy, and Sherlock's sat limply against his head. He'd lost weight, hard to imagine considering he was stick thin anyway, and although she'd tried to brush her teeth with water it hadn't worked all that well. Both of them had tried to wash using only the sink, but they still had to put the same clothes on afterwards – they must smell awful. Thankfully they were both keeping too far a distance from each other to notice, and their noses probably wouldn't register it after so much time anyway.

"Bored!" Sherlock moaned, throwing himself down on the other sofa. "Boooored!" He sang the last bit in a high-pitched tone that pricked at the base of her neck.

"Shut up about it!" she moaned. "Are you always this fucking annoying or is it just when I'm around?"

Sherlock sulked. Sally eyed the food box and tried to calculate how much was left and how long they'd be forced to stay here. Sherlock turned over and buried his head in the sofa. Sally suggested a word game. Sherlock told her she was stupid. Sally threw her cushion at him.

They sat in silence again. Bored. She wasn't wishing for another test, but she was wishing for freedom. How much longer? Were the others looking for them? The screen had only gone on once more, on the second day of their being trapped, and it hadn't told her anything useful; Lestrade and John hadn't even appeared on it. Since then the screen had remained blank, and she wondered if the media had stopped broadcasting about the incident. Had anyone come forwards?

She hated this small room. She hated Sherlock Holmes, she hated the way dirt clung to her skin no matter how many times she washed, and she hated the itchy sofa.

Just as she was considering poking Sherlock just to see what would happen the klaxon sounded with a blare that made her jerk upright and clap her hands over her ears. Her heart began to pound again, thumping and thrumming amongst her ribs like a frightened bird. She was scared all over again; the days of boredom had left her unprepared for this. The anticipation more than anything else was the worst thing, forcing saliva into her mouth.

Sherlock, on the other hand, leapt to his feet immediately, looking around wildly – he wasn't actually shouting hooray, but he seemed more excited than scared. She supposed his brain worked differently to everyone else's, and had the distinct impression that if it hadn't been for the fact he'd been so ill the past days he would have torn down the walls looking for something to do. Maybe Moriarty had planned it that way all along.

The door they'd come in through opened with a hiss, drawn back mechanically, and Sherlock strode through it without looking back, dropping his glass and letting it bounce onto the nearest sofa. Sally followed apprehensively, forgetting about her stomach pain in the light of this…whatever it was going to be.

The small room where the table had been was also empty, but the door that lead to the archery room was thrown wide, beckoning them. Sherlock obeyed the summons, vanishing into the dark space. Sally paused to shiver slightly – this place was colder than the previous room, and she wasn't used to it yet – then followed. The apprehension wasn't gone, and it was as if someone had seized the bottom of her neck and was holding it tightly, causing her to shudder.

As soon as she was a few steps away from the door it swung shut with a beep and they were locked in. The target was gone from the long room, as was the bow and arrow, and the lights were brighter than she would have liked. Sherlock was standing facing the only object in the room – a cupboard of some kind with a hat on top, one of the old fashioned funeral ones, black silk. She got the distinct feeling it didn't bode well.

She was waiting for the click of the cassette, but it didn't mean she had to like it when it came. She was never going to be able to listen to a tape again; the whirring was engrained too deeply into her mind.

"_Good morning chickies! Or is it afternoon? I suppose you aren't too sure of that, are you_?" Sherlock glowered at a vague spot near the ceiling in response._ "Test five! And it's a beauty this one, I'm telling you Sherlock baby. I'm sure you can see the rather fancy hat; in are lots of pieces of paper. You have to pull them out one by one, and read off them what the assignment is – and the person who chooses the paper has to do whatever it says to the other. If you can't bring yourself, please remember I have access to all sorts of chemicals you do not want to come into contact with. I would wish you luck, but I think I'd rather watch you cry…_"

There was a click and Moriarty was gone. Sally bit her lip and looked at the hat, wondering how many pieces of paper were in there – how many small hells they were going to have to suffer. The instructions the creep had given them were vague, and she wondered exactly what disturbing things were going to be written down.

Sherlock moved over to the hat and took it, then held it out to her without a word. She looked at it despairingly.

"Sherlock, I…."

"Don't." He cut across her shortly. "It makes sense to take turns. Go first, you can read it better than me anyway."

She was too tired and sore to argue, so she reached and plucked out one of the folded scraps, and pulled it apart to read.

'_Break a finger.'_

She hesitated, and then read it again, out loud. Sherlock's face flickered slightly, and she wondered for a second what exactly he'd been expecting from this, but then the mask was back in place, hard and set and broken only by the fact she knew he was tearing himself apart with anger inside, just as she was. This was sick. This was so sick it wasn't even registering.

"Go on then. Does it specify which finger?"

She shook her head, so he held out the little finger of his left hand to her – sensible, the one that had the least use and not on the hand he wrote with (or so she assumed). Her own fingers curled around his and she thought how she was going to break it – just pull back? Round? How would she know it was actually broken? Would Moriarty know?

Sherlock looked at her closely. She stepped back, dropping his hand.

"I can't…" She was a police officer! She _helped _people, and she stopped bad guys, and even if Sherlock were a violent criminal and not someone she'd spent the past days trying to survive with she doubted she'd break his finger anyway. What was the bloody point?

"You have to." He didn't seem worried. "I've had worse, really."

He took her hand and placed it over his own, waiting. She trembled and pinched the finger between her thumb and index, shaking. It seemed impossible – strong and fragile at the same time.

"John will kill me."

Sherlock shook his head. "John will kill Moriarty. Now do it, quickly."

She closed her eyes and, before she could think about just what she was doing, wrenched the finger backwards. Sherlock gave a muffled groan, but she knew it wasn't broken yet, she was screwing everything up, she was taking too long, pushing and pushing and she was hurting him and she felt as if she was going to burn up from shame…

Finally the bone gave way with a sickening crack and Sherlock cried out. She dropped his hand and sprang back, feeling tears forming in her eyes. Hastily she blinked them away – whatever Moriarty said she wasn't going to cry, she wasn't. Sherlock was panting, holding his hand close to his chest, sweating slightly. His finger was twisted at an odd angle and the thought occurred to her that it was her who'd done that – she'd hurt him. She'd finally done what she promised a hundred times under her breath in heated moments, and hurt him. She felt sick.

It took a couple of minutes for them both to recover, and then Sherlock reached for the hat and drew one out with his good hand. She was afraid that if she spoke it would come out as a scream, or have no sound at all, so she didn't stop him.

She was scared. It was her next, and she was so scared.

Sherlock chose a piece of paper and held it far away from his face, squinting to read – the writing was probably large enough for him to make out this time. She saw his face fall slightly, even though he tried to hide it.

"What?" she croaked. "What does it say?"

He bit his lip. "I…it's not…too bad." She was shocked to hear his usual eloquence leave him, the slight stutter around his words, the hesitation.

"Just. Tell. Me," she snarled. "Spit it out!"

"I have to cut…" He took a breath. "Cut your…um…cheek. Two inches, it doesn't say how deep."

Her cheek. A cut of two inches was going to hurt, it was going to bleed. And it was going to scar. She wasn't a ridiculously vain person, and she didn't bother an awful lot with her appearance – there was little point in her line of work – but it didn't mean she wanted to take something so permanent away from this. If she got away.

"What do you cut me with?" she said smoothly.

Their roles were reversed – he was trembling and hesitant, and she was the one pushing him along. She supposed it had something to do with morality – if you were the victim you were in the right. Wasn't that some kind of philosophy?

He moved to the cupboard and opened it easily. Inside were all sorts of things, some of which she couldn't identify, none of them pleasant-looking; Sherlock chose a long knife with a very sharp point and moved towards her, almost tripping over his own feet. She winced despite herself.

"I won't do it deeply," he whispered, pressing the point to her cheek. "I'm sorry…I said I wouldn't touch you again. That moment, I lost myself, I was so confused…"

She sighed, remembering how he had shaken her. "I know, but you have to. Do it quickly, then we can move on." She stuffed a hand in her mouth and stood as still as she could manage. Sherlock pressed the point down and moved it across. Sally tried desperately not to moan, and failed, screaming into her fist as fire ripped across her cheek and red drops spattered to the floor, just like tears.

* * *

**So, now things get serious. I think. I'll just sit here and hope I can pull this off.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	15. The Third Interval

"I said I didn't want you here John," Lestrade snapped. He, John and two officers were waiting on the street corner, watching for their man. John wondered if he was the only one to spot the black car as well; Mycroft was hardly going to leave them to it where Sherlock was concerned. And they'd been waiting so long – it had seemed like years until Wednesday had come round and they could finally _do_ something.

"I don't care," he muttered. His head was pounding, and his heart was working overtime again in a way he was sure wasn't healthy. "You've got me."

Lestrade sighed. "You're technically a civilian, and to be honest I don't see how you're going to help."

John laughed. "You're scared I'm going to kill the man before you get time to question him."

Lestrade was silent. John clenched his fists – true, he did have his gun, but he wasn't going to shoot anyone before he had Sherlock.

"Don't worry," he snarled. "Mycroft won't let me do anything."

Lestrade's eyes strayed to the black car and he gave a short not. "I'm trusting you here; we're all worried about Sherlock and Sally, and this may be our only chance to get them."

"I know."

Lestrade's earpiece gave a crackle and someone said something in a low voice; Lestrade replied in an undertone as John turned to him with a questioning look.

"We've got a man who fits the description coming this way; we'll get someone to pick him up seemingly for a random search, then we'll take him in."

"And hope he's the right guy," John muttered under his breath.

"Can't help that," Lestrade whispered. Their plainclothes officer leaned against the wall with a nod and John was glad for a second he wasn't the man who had the responsibility of catching their drug dealer – it was less likely the man was going to run away if he didn't see official uniforms, but everything hung on one moment. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle Sherlock and Sally's lives in that way.

He didn't doubt Moriarty was going to get bored at some point. If Sherlock wasn't dead already, a notion he mostly refused to entertain, then he knew he'd be damaged in some way. Moriarty did that kind of thing, drew things out slowly and painfully. He didn't know what to think, so he didn't, shutting down the voice in his head that taunted him, saying Sherlock was dead, dead, dead, and focusing on the man who rounded the corner, striding along as if he owned the world.

The officer waited five minutes for the man to settle down, and to make sure he was actually going to stay, and then they moved over and began speaking. Their target replied rather sharply, and then it was over – the officer whirled the man around and clapped cuffs to him, then Mycroft's men dashed forwards ahead of the police who'd been present and bundled him into the car before anyone could react.

It was chaos, officers shouting, Lestrade shouting, everyone running this way and that, but John slipped away from it all very quietly and returned to the flat. By the time he got there Mrs Hudson was hovering in the doorway; she looked tired, her face slightly streaked, and John had to appreciate that they were all going through their own hells at the moment. Sherlock's lack of presence hung in heavy silence over the flat.

"Some men just went up," she said breathlessly. "One of them was Sherlock's brother but they had this other-"

He nodded. "It's fine. You stay here and I'll tell you later."

She stepped back slightly reluctantly, and then turned in the entrance to her flat. "Is this to do with Sherlock and that woman?"

"Sally. And yes." He hesitated, unwilling to give her false hope, but they'd been waiting days and they needed something to keep them going. "We think this man will know where he is."

She nodded and retreated through the door. As he raced up the stairs as fast as his tired legs could manage John made up his mind to have a cup of tea with her as soon as he could manage it – he'd barely spoken to her since Sherlock had disappeared, even though he'd been at home, stewing, a lot of the time. He just hadn't felt like talking to anyone.

Mycroft was waiting for him, with two of his goons by the door and another at the window. The man they'd captured was sitting on the sofa, looking terrified already, and John knew this time it was going to be easier – this man was seedy and probably none too bright, unlike the wiry man who'd posed as the cleaner to send the message to Sherlock. His face was rounded and blotchy, topped with a mop of dirty brown, receding hair, and he had slightly weak blue eyes that let his obvious fear shine through. John decided he probably wouldn't have to do anything – pain was a bad idea, it would just make him clam up. No, they had to trick him into thinking they were the better option, compared to Moriarty. Mycroft was imposing and impressive, and he gave off an aura of power that might just tempt someone to give in to a deal.

Mycroft gave him a glance and John knew his assumptions had been right – he was warning him with his eyes not to do anything threatening. John was happy to play along, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed as if he owned the place – which he half did, he reminded himself – and steepling his hands under his chin in the same fashion Sherlock used when he was thinking. It made him look, and feel, more intelligent than he really was.

There was a rustle as Mycroft perched on the edge of a second chair and leaned forward with his hands over his umbrella.

"What do you want?" the man whimpered, looking from the window to the door and back to Mycroft helplessly. "You've got the wrong man, I swear it, I don't owe anyone; I keep to my word…"

John laughed. The man thought this was about _money_. As if either he or Mycroft gave a fuck about that.

"You are mistaken," said Mycroft smoothly. His tone was slightly creepy, but engaging – perhaps John, who had never seen Mycroft inviting, simply found that strange. "I do not want money. You are now in the custody of the British Government, and you have the keys to two very…valuable…items which we wish to retrieve."

The man tried to untangle the fancy phrasing for a second or two, and then gave up. "What?"

John saw the large amount of effort Mycroft had to deploy to keep himself from putting the man down with a sharp insult displayed in his tense features. "Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan went missing several days ago. We know that you know where they are." The man made to speak, but Mycroft held up a hand. "Hear me out. If you tell us where they are being held I can offer you a deal." John felt a thrill of satisfaction at guessing correctly. The man wasn't exactly falling over his feet to accept, but he looked mildly interested.

"What sort of deal?"

"You give us the information and you won't go to jail for dealing the cocaine currently stashed in the hollow heel of your left shoe."

The dealer jumped in his chair, but didn't make a dash for it, which was lucky for all of them, but especially him. He stroked his chin slightly, and then shook his head. "No. The man I'm working for ain't likely to forgive me – I'd be safer in jail."

"We can remedy that," Mycroft added hastily, although not hastily enough to indicate he was worried to anyone who hadn't met him before. "We have resources for protection of witnesses; I assure you you'd be quite safe, and a free man – _if _you give us that information."

"It'd better be the right information," John added, sitting back and flexing his fingers, unable to stop himself. "Because if it isn't he'll let you loose in a room with me. Have you ever seen someone who's had the most precious thing in their life stolen? It isn't pretty. Really."

The man hesitated, dithering, and Mycroft shot him a glare that was half appreciating and half reproachful. John saw the gears turning in the dealer's head – perhaps the man didn't know Moriarty well, because he nodded. He didn't want to go to jail, but John felt privately he'd rather be arrested than trust Mycroft after having a hand in the kidnap of his brother.

"Alright; I'll tell you."

* * *

**Time's a-ticking John, get your skates on! And I know I probably shouldn't interrupt a test with an interval but the timing of the later chapters was a complete pain to do.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	16. The Fifth Test, Part Two

**Warnings****: More severe torture. Suicidal themes.**

* * *

Sherlock's hand was steady this time as he passed Sally the hat; it seemed that after she'd torn a strip of her clothing off and pressed it to the cut – when the bleeding had slowed and the wound couldn't be seen – he was fine again. She didn't think it was the blood itself, because the man poked around with dead bodies for a living, but the fact he'd been forced to do it. She felt much the same, and even though they'd hastily strapped his fingers together as best they could, she wished she didn't have to look at them.

Sally took a piece of paper randomly from the proffered hat and opened it out carefully. She didn't want to look, but she knew she had to, feeling the time ticking. They only had until Moriarty got bored, after all, and the man was unpredictable, childish, and deadly.

The paper read '_electric shock' _and for a second she was confused. And then she looked at the cupboard door, which Sherlock had left open; nestled inside was a taser gun, police issue, or so she thought – she didn't carry one herself. Dead people tended not to create the need for them. It wouldn't be enough to kill, or even stun him into unconsciousness fully, but damn, it was going to hurt. She'd only used a taser once or twice, on a training course Lestrade insisted everyone attend, but they weren't hard to manage. Sherlock was eyeing her apprehensively, so she forced a weak twist of a smile onto her lips.

"Nothing awful." She reached for the taser, her brain flashing to something stupid about irony – someone as unlawful as Moriarty getting something used by the police – and held it out. Sherlock twitched, but didn't protest, didn't run away. He just stood and let her fire.

She aimed for his leg because she thought that if it left a burn it wouldn't hurt so much. The electrodes stuck silently into Sherlock's shin and less than a heartbeat later he gave a jerk and was thrown backwards, muscles locking up as he fell, landing with a thud. She choked on the air, which seemed to be crackling, despite the fact she knew it wasn't, and ran to yank the thing away from him. His eyes were open, his head turned awkwardly to one side, moaning.

"Sorry," she muttered quietly. "I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

She grasped his limp right hand and squeezed it gently, knowing it was going to take him ten minutes to recover at least, and not knowing what to do with herself in the meantime. The seconds dragged out into minutes and she sat with him, waiting, numb. This was what Moriarty had turned them into – torturers. And it almost broke her heart.

John would no doubt break the rest of her later.

Sherlock recovered fairly quickly, gaining coherence within a few minutes and standing just past ten, although he was back to wobbling around on shaky legs that brought her back with a jolt to the way they'd arrived. He told her not to worry – that she'd only been doing what she had to. She nodded as if she believed him and he pretended he wasn't hurting and they carried on.

Sherlock pulled out a slip of paper and read it quickly, then balled it into a small crumpled mess before throwing it away from him in disgust, so she knew that whatever it was, it was enough to make him angrier than she'd seen him for a while, in a quiet, burning way that perforated the very air with hatred. Even though it wasn't directed at her, it still made her shiver.

"Three lashes," Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. "To the back."

She faltered, but supposed it could be worse – three was a small number. It could have been far more.

There was a whip in the cupboard, a proper one with a long cord that she wasn't sure was even going to fit in the room properly when it was extended. It looked expensive, dark black, and sophisticated. It also looked painful, and, despite the fact the closest she'd ever come to being whipped was the lash of a skipping rope when she was small, she shivered. The uncertainty of how it would feel was almost worse than the imminent discomfort.

Sherlock made her kneel, saying otherwise she'd have a higher chance of falling and hurting herself, and then administered the lashes quickly and cleanly, with either practiced hand or luck; he seemed to know which parts of her were going to hurt the least. The first was as bad as she'd expected; a line of fire across her shoulder blade that caused her to jerk forwards, although the biting agony faded quickly to a dull throb, and the same for the second, over her lower back. The third lash was off-aim and made her cry out as it whipped one of the places already striped with blood, causing an extra sharp sting. As whipping went she assumed it wasn't too bad, but by the end of it she felt slightly nauseated and tears were pricking at the back of her eyes again. Blood trickled down her back and into her trousers, and her shirt was torn and stained.

Time slid into a long tunnel of pain, either emotional, when she had to deliver it, or physical, when she had to receive. It was a fucked up kind of game, and endurance test, a PE lesson with a gory twist. Was it just her, or was everything getting worse and worse, or was that just because her injuries were layered over each other? Maybe Moriarty had deliberately placed the evil slips at the bottom of the hat, waiting for one of them to break as he got more and more creative.

She broke another of Sherlock's fingers, and in return he had to rip out one of her nails with tweezers – that was total agony, spattering the floor liberally with blood and causing her to yell and swear in order to bear it out. Then there was a lash of the whip across the back of the knees for him, a jab at a pressure point for her – a welcome relief, considering some of the other things that could happen, although it left her winded and breathless – then a toenail for him, ripped away from the skin in a way that made him scream, despite her efforts to do it quickly. He was forced to carve a pattern over her hand with a knife, at which she bit her lip hard enough to split it open, and then she reached into the hat and almost threw up at what she read.

'_Head underwater for_ _one minute. Hold them there.'_

Sherlock saw it on her face – the man saw everything – and she saw him square his shoulders, wiping a bloody hand over his sweaty face, leaving red streaks over his forehead.

"What is it?"

There was a bucket in the cupboard. She's seen in earlier, hadn't guessed what it was there for. Her eyes were drawn to it, his followed, and for a second he looked even paler. This wasn't just going to be painful – it was going to be dangerous. Once his head was in the bucket he would be at her mercy; she could feel the faint trust they had in each other wavering slightly.

"How long?" His voice was strained, cracked. Blood from her hand was running down her fingers and onto the note, held loosely at her side.

"A minute."

His face didn't change – instead he went and got the bucket of water from the cupboard and placed it on the floor before kneeling next to it. He was making it easy for her.

"I don't want to." Her voice trembled slightly. "I don't want to."

"You have to." He pushed his hair out of his face and pointed at the water. "I can hold my breath for a minute, easily. If you don't…well, you know what'll happen."

She took a step forwards, despite the fact everything inside her was screaming at how wrong this was. "I don't know how to."

"Just push down. If I struggle, don't worry about it – just natural instinct. And don't count too quickly, or we'll no doubt be made to do it again."

Her body was unattached from her mind as she reached forwards and pushed his head down. He let her do it in a way that was too meek, too unlike him. Water closed over her hands, icy cold, making her cuts sting. She counted. One elephant, two elephant. They had no way to keep time. Sherlock's hands gripped the side of the bucket tightly. She watched his hair in the water, floating out behind him. Still. She wondered if he had his eyes closed or not, wondered what she would have done if it had been her under the water. Panicked, no doubt. Useless.

As it neared the last ten seconds he did begin to struggle slightly, legs twisting and his head pushing against her hands as he tried to surface, and she kept him down even though every ounce of her was begging her to stop and let him up. She carried on until the last second was over, and then dragged her hands away. Sherlock broke the surface, breathing and coughing and upsetting the bucket, which drenched them both as water spread along the floor.

"I'm sorry," she choked, staring at her hands – they looked deceptively innocent. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He looked too tired to reply, water streaming down his face, hair sticking to his neck, kneeling next to the bucket with his chest heaving, but eventually he spoke. "We have to move on."

He seemed to have pushed away all emotion, putting his mask in place and keeping it there. After that she lost track of everything, tuning out and allowing her mind to go so numb and blank she lost the ability to distinguish pain from emotion, from limbs; everything went back to pain, over and over until she knew she was going to start sobbing even as she carried on. Every now and then one or both of them would scream out for it to stop, and were ignored because they knew they had to live.

Then, after more gruelling, horrific minutes than she cared to count, she reached into the hat and realised – there was nothing there. It was empty. They'd done it.

She gave a gasp and sank to her knees, returning to reality bit by bit with her hands pressed against her temples, ignoring the many small cuts that lay across her palms. Sherlock thumped down next to her, leaving red smears across the cold floor, panting.

"We did it," he muttered. Sally realised that although their injuries were painful, none of them were stopping them functioning fully, provided they could rest soon. The thought was comforting in a way, because it meant there was little serious permanent damage, but it was slightly chilling as well; the damage would be chiefly psychological. The reality of what they'd done to each other was growing inside her mind even as she tried to push it away, and she knew Moriarty was just waiting in the shadows.

It was like the man was tapped into her thoughts – as soon as the idea had crossed her mind there was a click, and she braced herself for the next tape, but when it came it was different. There was no whirring this time, no sound of the tape. Instead there was simply the slight resonance that came with a microphone – Moriarty was live. He really was watching their every move.

Slow clapping filled the space for what seemed like hours, until she thought she was going to choke on it.

"_Well done the both of you – some of that screaming was very loud. Whoever thought Sherlock would be such a yeller?_"

Sherlock didn't even seem angry, sinking further to the floor. He looked like he was about to pass out, and she wasn't sure she was so far away from doing so herself. She couldn't even muster the energy to drag herself over to him. Sticky blood dribbled down her cheek, her back, her hand. She wondered how much of it was her own.

"_Well unfortunately I didn't get those tears I wanted, so let's step up the game, hmm? Here's something that'll really make you cry. One of you has to kill themselves._"

There was a very brief second of silence when her head snapped up in horror, and then he pressed on, not allowing her to process the way her heart had just sunk down to her stomach and pressed itself into the lining until she could feel her blood pumping around her whole body.

"_Now, wait for me to finish! You'll have one minute to decide, and if you don't I'll kill you both, don't think I won't – Sherlock, you were interesting whilst you lasted, but I was always going to kill one of you. How about you off yourself now and then I'll let the Sergeant go? Or Sally, you can do it and I'll let Sherlock go, for now. But one of you has to, or the room is suddenly going to become very airless. Good luck with this one – I'm counting!_"

She looked at Sherlock in total despair, and saw it flit across his eyes for the merest of seconds – '_I don't want to leave him. I don't want to leave John. I don't want to die._' It was there only for a heartbeat, but she saw it all the same, and that what when she knew Sherlock was the only person who was ever going to be able to stop Moriarty. He was the only person with the brains, the dedication, and the knowledge of how the game worked. She was no-one. She had no family apart from her parents, and Sherlock had John and…

Nothing was going to convince her to kill herself, no amount of reasoning.

"_Thirty seconds!_"

It was the way Sherlock moved his hand towards the knife that did it – he was going to stick his neck out for her because he thought he had to. He was going to let Moriarty win, and she realised she didn't need reason; there was no rationality in this. She needed to act. Hadn't she always been trained to protect the civilians? Sherlock, no matter what he wanted to think, was under her care, even though she wasn't on duty, even though they were both trapped in a situation that was so out of reality she was expecting to wake up any second. It was her job, and she had to do it.

"_Twenty…._"

She was there before him, snatching the blade out of his reach and then she was the one dodging back and out of the way with something sharp over her wrist whilst he chased after her, shouting. The role reversal wasn't lost on her, and if she'd been some sort of great writer or professor she might have drawn all sorts of conclusions from it that were meaningless statements no-one would ever be able to prove.

But she wasn't. She was just Sally.

"Don't…" Sherlock said. "We can beat him; we can stop this…"

"_Ten...nine…eight…"_

From a man who saw so much death, the look of horror on his face was almost comical. Knowing him he'd find her more interesting dead anyway.

She smiled at the thought and ripped the blade cleanly over her left wrist.

* * *

**Please don't hunt me down and beat me - this is what I'd always planned for Sally, right from the beginning. Because I'm mean.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	17. The Fifth Test, Part Three

Sally found herself lying in a pool of water mixed with her own blood and remembered in less than a heartbeat what she'd just done. She'd just committed suicide.

She could see the cut on her arm, fuzzy and blurred around the edges. She'd almost forgotten she couldn't see anything clearly past thirty centimetres – perhaps Moriarty had forgotten too.

Sherlock swam into view in front of her, his mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear…

There was a sudden pop in her ears she knew was only imagined and she snapped out of the shock enough to feel the burning across her left wrist and see the blood spattering the floor, the walls, everywhere…

She began to panic despite herself; that was _her _blood, her heart rate it was flying out of her in time to. Sherlock was covered in it, his face and hands, fingernails slipping over her own. He was an idiot, he had no idea what kind of diseases she could have – not that she did – but the man always did lack caution…

"Sally, I'm going to press down here," he said, and she saw him rip off the sleeve of his coat and press it over the wound, hard enough to make her groan from the dull, aching pain that rocketed up a few notches. She was confused, losing it, her mouth hurt and her head was slightly fuzzy, but she realised what he was trying to do.

"No!" she croaked. "You can't save me or Moriarty will kill us both…"

"I don't care," he snarled, lying as fucking always, but she was too tired to challenge him. Sherlock had his fist clenched tightly around her wrist, pressing the material into the wound and the bleeding slowed as he wrenched her hand above her heart level and pushed her down when she tried to protest.

"_You're going against the rules again Sherlock,_" came Moriarty's voice, making her shiver, her teeth chattering. She was so cold, so cold…

"I don't care!" Sherlock shouted. "I don't care!" His voice was strained and hoarse, and she wondered if he was crying but couldn't see it through the liberal scarlet splatters over his cheeks.

"_You've got five minutes to die Sally, and if you haven't I'm sending someone down there…_"

"Why don't you show your fucking face?" Sherlock screamed, tightening his grip over her wrist until she cried out. He didn't release her, boiling with rage; she didn't think she'd ever heard him swear before.

There was only silence from the speaker, but the sound of their frantic breathing filled the small space in ragged gasps.

"Let it go," Sally whispered, trying weakly to pull away – he was far too strong for her right now, but it was worth a try. "It's my job to protect-"

"You were off duty," Sherlock snapped. "You shouldn't be here."

She tipped her head to the side and let her good hand reach for the knife, but he leaned over and pushed it into a corner, well out of her range.

"You are the most stubborn, insufferable git I've ever had the misfortune to meet," she groaned. She considered making him so mad he killed her himself, but doubted she'd manage it when her lips felt so heavy, and he'd probably see right through it anyway.

He used his free hand to tear off part of his trouser leg and wrapped that over the now-soaked coat sleeve. His medical knowledge was good, she grudgingly admitted – he was living with a doctor. This way she might even last five minutes, and part of her wanted to do so – she didn't want to die, she only wanted to make sure Moriarty was stopped, and death just happened to be the side effect.

She was too weak to struggle at all, lying with her arm way above her head and Sherlock kneeling beside her. It was taking too much time, everything was too silent, and she was scared, turning cold as the blood rushed from her veins. She'd seen blood before, but it know it was her own left a vague feeling of panic tugging at the base of her neck and zipping along her thoughts like an unwelcome passenger.

"You're crying," he whispered, reaching a thumb out to touch her face, bemused. "Please don't cry…"

She gave a gulp. "I can't help it, I'm sorry…" She was so weak, so stupid, and she was going to die weak and stupid and bleeding…

He was completely silent at first, but as her already shaky vision began to turn a little black around the edges he began to hum very softly.

"What's that?" she whispered, trying to pick up the tune. She was attempting to shout to make herself heard, but her throat was numb and sore.

"I don't know," he said, bending his head slightly. "John sometimes sings it in the flat."

"Sounds nice." If she had to die, listening to slightly tuneless humming wasn't the worse way to go, and yet the silence was gathering around her, blocking the sound, pushing down in small hands that reached and snatched her consciousness, scattering her thoughts so she began to forget who she was, where she was, plunging her into visions she wasn't sure whether had happened or were happening or had never happened.

There was a sound, muffled and distorted, and she felt her hand hit the floor, pressure gone. Blood began to stream faster and faster, and she knew she had to do something, something was wrong with Sherlock; he wouldn't have left her…

The shock was enough to drag her out of the confusion for a few seconds, enough time to gather her thoughts and force her good hand up to grasp at the material clinging wetly to the gash in her wrist. Actually raising her head was about as probable as swimming the channel, but she tipped her neck to the side so she could see what was happening.

Sherlock was wriggling and kicking in the grip of a man far larger than himself, blurred from her befuddled mind and the speed at which he was moving. He'd been seized around the shoulders, dragged backwards and lifted right off the floor, spitting and snarling and twisting to no avail.

There was a second man, short and slender, dark hair, who was talking to him; although she could hear the noise actually discerning what it meant was too difficult. She watched helplessly as Sherlock struck out, and the smaller man stamped down on the foot that was missing a toenail. She heard the scream Sherlock let out, saw the elbow his opponent gave to his stomach, and saw him sink to his knees, coughing. She blacked out for a second or two and when she dragged herself back Sherlock was on his feet again, moving backwards hastily; the walls were twisted and angled in her mind.

She was so cold…

She herd a last shout as the large man grasped Sherlock and threw him backwards; he fell, his head smashing against the wall with a crack that reverberated through her and made her gasp, snapping his head forwards as he crumpled, but her lungs were hurting and there was nothing she could do as her slippery fingers lost their grip on her wrist and fell limply on her chest. The slender man in the doorway stepped over Sherlock and made for her, and she knew he was going to kill her properly, was going to kill Sherlock, perhaps had already killed Sherlock…

So cold.

She snapped out of the confusion to hear him speak for a second, and maybe she recognised the voice from her nightmares because she felt in her sinking heart it was Moriarty in the flesh, and the tears dried against her bloody cheeks as the long lost humming drifted around in her head…

She was so cold.

He was coming closer, little by little. Her vision skewed in and out of focus and blood seeped through her shirt from her wrist, not enough to warm her up. Step by step he was coming and there was nothing she could do, no-one to help her…

It was just so cold.

* * *

**The next chapter's going to be late, I'm afraid, as I'm going on holiday for a week with no internet access (sorry). **

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome.**

**To be continued!**


	18. The Fourth Interval

The helicopter barely had time to stop before Mycroft's team dropped out of it. The location was the one they'd managed to wrangle out of the drug dealer; an old mill in the countryside, not too far from London, deserted. John felt this had to be the right place; the cold atmosphere was seeping into his bones like someone breathing on the back of his neck.

He snapped back to his army days as the captain of the team began to give orders, listening intently and without question. There were four of them, including John, although the night that had sunk over them like a dropped tablecloth meant it was hard to pick each other out in the black clothes they were wearing. That was good though – it meant no-one else would be able to see them either.

The helicopter left with less noise than he'd expected, and they were on their own until backup arrived an hour later. He hoped they wouldn't need it.

If Mycroft had had his way John wouldn't have been coming with them, but it proved surprisingly tricky, even for the government, to find army doctors in less than an hour ready to fly out into the countryside and rescue two people from a madman. John would be useful, not only to the team, but if either Sherlock or Sally were hurt. He hoped they wouldn't be, but he knew Moriarty. The chances of them being unharmed were about nil, and he had to accept that. He hated the fact.

The captain of their hastily put-together team was brisk and got his final points across – most of the talking had been done whilst they were flying – without waffle whilst the others listened attentively. John didn't even know their names, but he knew they'd been instructed to protect him. The black outfit he was wearing was slightly too long at the sleeves, given to him last-minute like everything else. At least they'd let him keep his own gun.

There was a silent nod as everyone checked their equipment a final time, and then they were running towards the mill swiftly and silently, thankful for ground soft enough not to make a noise, but hard enough not to bog them down. Perfect, really.

The plan was to go through one of the less well-known entrances; a tiny hole in the side of the mill that had been used to dispose of waste into the river when it still dealt with textiles in the eighteen-hundreds. The water they were going to have to wade through wasn't deep, and although would be tricky to manoeuvre safely in the dark, they were up to it; and they knew the layout of the mill inside out after going over the plans and blueprints repeatedly during the helicopter ride.

They reached the river surprisingly quickly and crossed without hesitation – Moriarty was likely to have patrols on the perimeter, because the man wasn't stupid even if he was crazy. They'd anticipated dogs, but it seemed they must be downwind, and the river would drown their scent anyway.

One of Mycroft's men, slim and short, hitched his gun over his back and scrambled up into the tube, moving up it using just his hands and feet. He was a good climber, and if all went well there'd be a rope for the rest of them to use passed down. If it wasn't they were to wait five minutes, then try another entrance. The safe word was 'oranges' and the fake safe word was 'lemons'. These people were highly trained and loyal to Mycroft, and John didn't doubt they'd sacrifice themselves willingly, giving a warning and risking a bullet to the back of the head rather than let all of them be captured.

They hadn't been waiting for no more than a minute before there was a whisper of 'oranges' down the tube and a rope slithered down. The captain went first, closely followed by the next member of the team, a woman with hair forced into a small bun, and finally John bringing up the rear. He'd kept his gun tucked in a holster under his arm, but he was still paranoid the water had got into it; everything about this mission seemed precarious, but they hadn't had a lot of options.

The journey up the rope was harder than he'd ever have admitted out loud, because despite storming around with Sherlock his fitness level had dropped slightly, and his shoulder ached with every pull. His limp, on the other hand, wasn't bothering him at all, which was something he was thankful for, but water was dripping off the clothing of the person in front of him and spattering the top of his head as he hauled himself up, making him uncomfortable.

The corridor, when he half-climbed, half-fell into it, was mercifully empty, apart from his fellow rescue team. He was breathing heavily, but they didn't give him the scathing looks they'd given him when they'd seen him for the first time. It was as if he'd proved he could at least keep up.

The plan now consisted of splitting into two pairs and taking one end of the corridor each. They were at the ground level of the mill right now, and there was no cellar on the plans, so they were to work their way up as quickly as possible, taking out any guards without alerting anyone of their presence and searching everywhere for the prisoners. If they got Moriarty in the bargain as well that was fine, but John doubted they'd manage it – he was too quick, and he was likely to have plenty of escape routes.

The captain went with John and the others split off with a nod and disappeared through the other door. They had radios to signal if they were in need of help, or found what they were looking for.

The door John and the captain had in front of them was locked, but they picked it without trouble – everything here was rusty or wooden, broken down and falling. It was hard to imagine that Moriarty would decide to build anything here, not when the man had such a taste for splendour, grand schemes and expensive suits, not tumble-down old buildings. As he jogged behind and they picked or broke down doors one by one John had to entertain the notion they might have been tricked. The place seemed empty, no guards, no people, not even any CCTV, at least none it was possible to spot.

When they'd gone up all three floors and searched every single room – there weren't many, as they were all large and spacious to accommodate the large machinery that had once stood there – the captain radioed the other team, who only reported the same – nothing.

"We'll meet back down in the corridor," the captain said. "And decide where to go from there."

From there was a hurried and tiring scramble down to the ground floor again. John felt confused and angry, but slightly numb as well, as if someone had put a thick lid on his emotions, leaving them to simmer. The stairs creaked and he wondered if they were going to all fall through, but decided there was no point in worrying about it.

Jesus, he was tired.

The other team met them in a room off the side of the corridor, wooden and dark, lit only by their torches. Both of them were breathing slightly heavily, but wearing masks of complete indifference.

"Nothing sir," said one of them, dropping her gun to her side. "I think we'll have to return to base."

"You can't!" John burst out before he could stop himself, and they turned to stare. "We can't just leave them…"

The captain looked like he was beginning to regret the fact John was with them. "Look, it's obvious we've been tricked. We can go back to base when backup lands and see what we can manage to do, but this place isn't our answer."

John let his shoulders slump and looked at the ground. His pent-up frustration was working its way to the surface, but he kept it in check; the man was probably right. But he'd been so sure…

It struck him just as they were about to turn and go; if Sherlock had been there he would have called him an idiot for taking so long to work it out.

"They're not above us," he murmured, then spoke more loudly, addressing the rest of the team and pointing at the floor. "They're below us!"

They stopped and turned to look at him, then exchanged glances. "This place doesn't go past the ground floor," said one of them eventually. "We checked all the plans."

This was true, of course. But just because they'd been shown there was no cellar or underground storey didn't mean Moriarty hadn't built one – it wasn't as if he'd bother applying for the planning permission, so it wouldn't be on official records. That was why they hadn't encountered any guards, that was why men far lower down in Moriarty's scheme knew the location of one of the man's grandest schemes of all; there were no CCTV cameras in the actual building because they would have seemed out of place. It was a decoy. Perhaps he'd anticipated them showing up and leaving again, empty-handed – and why would they look in the same place twice?

It was beautiful. And it almost made him want to be sick; had he not lived with Sherlock so long and got used to looking at things the wrong side up he might never have understood.

The captain continued to look at him, working out in his own head everything John already had and drawing his own conclusions. He nodded. "It's possible. How do we get down there?"

There was a second's pause, hesitation, and thinking.

"Break through the floor," said the man who'd climbed up the tunnel first. "It'll make a noise, but if we all work together it shouldn't take a minute to splinter the boards."

After a quick murmur of agreement they tested the floorboards to find the weakest patch, knelt and raised their weapons before and slamming the butts down simultaneously.

Chaos erupted; the floorboards were more rotten than they'd thought and gave way suddenly, tipping them all down into a room of some kind, hard floor, metal. John's heart flew into his mouth and his stomach lurched as he landed heavily, but he managed to keep a hold of his gun. There were shouts of surprise, people were moving. John scrambled to his feet just as there were three shots, and then silence; it was over before he could get involved.

Two guards were dead. The captain was clutching his hand with gritted teeth, but John could see the wound wasn't dangerous – a mere clip, although it probably hurt like hell.

They were in a control room of some sort, cold and unforgiving. There were two dead guards slumped over their chairs and swallowed slightly, heart pounding, but pulled himself together quickly and stepped forwards.

Behind the table was a set of several television screens showing scenes from a number of rooms; high-quality CCTV, colour. John ran his eyes over the images, spotting something that looked like a ball pool and something else that looked almost like a hotel room, frantically searching for the one with Sally and Sherlock in. It wasn't hard to pick out; it was the only one spattered with red. His thoughts jumped and whirled as he was just in time to see Sherlock jerked away from something, Sally lying with so much blood around her he thought surely she couldn't be alive, hair spread out around her head.

"Go!" shouted the captain as soon as he spotted what John had spotted. He went to the control table and examined the buttons, then pressed one labelled 'control room'. The door slid open. "Go, I'll let you through."

John began to run before the others had even gathered themselves together, and kept running. He felt so numb he barely registered anything but the sound of his own pounding feet, but desperation drove him forwards, way ahead of the rest of the team; he knew it was unsafe, didn't care.

The door slid open for him and he burst in, panting, weapon already drawn, eyes darting left and right, taking it in, calculating. Moriarty was leaning over Sally, reaching down to touch her, but before his fingers could make contact John shot him.

He wanted it over, and over it would be.

There was a crunch of shattering bone he found incredibly satisfying and a long howl of surprised pain as Moriarty dropped to the floor, kneecap shattered by the bullet. Not dead. Yet. Mycroft could have him, John thought savagely, gritting his teeth and turning. As he did someone, the second man who'd pulled Sherlock away from Sally tried to get to him, throwing himself forwards and knocking John's gun from his grip before he could shoot, tripping him. John went down, rolled over kicked him hard in the chest. He heard ribs break and scrambled to his feet as the man dropped, then kicked him sharply in the head.

He wanted it _finished_.

And now he had a choice; Sally or Sherlock. They were both laying there, both covered in blood. Moriarty didn't count; he deserved to bleed until he was shrivelled. He didn't know what had happened to them. John hesitated for a second, heart and head tugging him separate ways, and then forced himself towards Sally instead of Sherlock. She was plainly dying. If he didn't help her he'd have her blood on his hands. Sherlock, on the other hand, was breathing, John could see. Thank god, he was breathing.

He gripped tightly onto Sally's wrist with one hand and opened his pack with the other, searching for the wrappings and stitches he'd been provided with, anything that would help keep her blood inside her body, so focused on his task that he didn't realise the rest of the team had caught up with him and were staring at the havoc he'd managed to wreak, until one of them coughed.

"Go to him," he said to one of them, any of them. Tears were pricking the back of his eyes, but he blinked them away, continued to be a doctor. "Call for an ambulance, backup, anything. Then go to him and tell him I'm here, even if he can't hear you."

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**So this chapter was absolutely evil to write and I re-did it about four different times and I still don't like it but I hope it suffices. **

**Thank you for being patient with the late update. Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	19. The Second Argument

It had been touch and go for so many days that John felt like he was on a rollercoaster which levelled off and lulled him into a false sense of security before plunging him back into fear again. They'd been in time, but only just; the closeness of the thing scared him.

Sherlock was kept under sedation most of the time. He'd suffered a concussion severe enough to put him in an eight-hour coma, not to mention severe exhaustion, malnutrition and a whole host of other things, just to make John anxious enough to explode. Even now, on the road to recovery, he hadn't stopped worrying. And he missed Sherlock's voice. When Sherlock woke, groggy and weak, John would help walk him to the loo and back, but Sherlock didn't say anything coherent. With Sherlock it wasn't just the fact he was speaking – it was the _way _he said it, the brilliant things that usually came out of his mouth, and at the moment those things were gone. It was temporary, and Sherlock was slowly gathering lucidity, but it scared him.

Sally had simply lost nearly enough blood to kill her.

He hadn't left the hospital for more than a few hours. People had popped in and out – Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson – but none of them stayed long. Mycroft told him Moriarty was in custody, and suffering immense pain from his shattered kneecap. Eventually they would wheedle more information about his organisation out of him – through force if necessary. Although John found that satisfying for now he didn't have the spare energy care much; he slept by Sherlock's bed, ate when they brought him food and looked in on Sally a couple of times, when he couldn't stand to see Sherlock's still face a second longer. Mycroft had 'gone over' the recordings that had been taken of Sally and Sherlock's various tests – John wondered if he'd done it himself, or paid someone else to do it – and told him, in brief, what they'd been put through. What Sally had done to herself for Sherlock shocked him completely, and it still hadn't registered. He was mostly too tired to process much of anything.

On the third day he returned from picking up some water from the shop and diverted into Sally's room on a whim. She was asleep, which was only to be expected – people didn't just bounce back from losing that much blood, no matter how many transfusions they had. He told himself it'd had only been three days and he shouldn't expect too much from either of them.

Anderson was there, which surprised him; the man hadn't shown his face until now, so John had assumed he wasn't going to bother. He looked tired as well, stubble beginning to show over his top lip and under his chin, and his clothes had a stain on the chest that looked like part of a hasty lunch.

"Hello," John said guardedly, taking a step back. Anderson gave him a nod.

"Evening."

Was it evening already? The reply had been curt and sharp, so John hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a couple of seconds, then left, embarrassed, when Anderson didn't say anything else. Sherlock was still asleep, but uneasy in a way that showed he was coming out of it. John hoped that this time he'd be lucid, that this time he could throw his arms around Sherlock's neck and tell him never to go away from him again and Sherlock would understand him.

He didn't know how long he sat before Anderson walked up behind him and leaned against the wall.

"How's Sally?" John croaked, coughing slightly; he thought he was coming down with something.

"Not great," Anderson replied in the same sharp, strained tone he'd used before. "No thanks to the freak."

John whipped round to face him, already bristling. "Don't call him that. And what the hell do you mean, 'no thanks to'?"

"She was part of his game," Anderson said, a trace of a sneer lacing his voice as he pushed away from the wall. "Moriarty dragged her into this because of him, and look at what happened to her! This is his fault, getting involved, running around London as if he owned it and not caring about whether anyone else got hurt!"

"He tried to save her!" John returned, outraged, standing up. Anderson was so unreasonable, so inhuman right now he could hit him…

"He didn't try hard enough though, did he?" was the reply. John barely heard it through the roaring in his ears, but he forced his temper down. Brawling in the hospital certainly wasn't a dignified thing to do, not that he cared much, but Anderson wasn't worth being thrown out for. He was tired. They were all tired and worried. "She still ended up nearly dying didn't she? And it's all his fault!"

John wasn't angry enough to not notice Anderson was talking utter bollocks, no doubt brought on by stress and anxiety – none of them were thinking too rationally – but at first he was too mad to notice the heart monitor, which had suddenly rocketed up a few notches in an annoying beeping that pricked at the back of his mind until he registered it properly and turned around to look.

Sherlock, as he'd hoped mere seconds ago, was awake, and staring.

For once he was lucid enough to have been able to hear what they'd been saying, but still in a state of confusion that didn't quite register how inaccurate it was. He looked…shocked. Hurt, like child left out in the rain and kicked until it was crying out without knowing why.

"Sherlock," John whispered, running to him and clasping his hand. "Sherlock, are you alright?" And he didn't care that Anderson was there, he didn't care that people would find out, all he wanted was for Sherlock to say something to show he was.

"John," Sherlock croaked, reaching up a hand connected to a drip to touch John's face. Anderson's words were forgotten when John gently pecked Sherlock's cracked lips and pulled him into an embrace.

"Thank god," John mumbled into Sherlock's neck. "It's all over now, don't worry." Sherlock gave a weak chuckle and bumped his nose into the top of John's head affectionately.

"How touching," Anderson muttered. "The freak and the puppy back together again."

John felt the slight rush of air against his neck as Sherlock took in a deep breath, and he pulled away reluctantly and got to his feet.

"I said, don't call him that." His voice came out strained, anger beginning to creep into his tone.

"I can call him what I damn well like!"

John lost it – all the pent up energy and frustration and anger that had been boiling inside him and rasping along his stomach like knives broke out and aimed itself at Anderson.

A fist slammed into the man's shoulder before he could react and then they were staggering backwards, rolling out of the open door and into the corridor, which was empty for once. Good. He seized his collar and dragged him upright, slamming him against the wall and shaking him. He was angry, angry enough to hurt if he wanted to; it wasn't as if he didn't know how…

Anderson looked dazed, but he still managed to land a kick on John's shin, enough to bruise and make him hiss, but not enough to make him release the grip. There was the sound of ripping cotton as John pushed Anderson further into the wall and held him there, panting. It was as if Anderson's face had suddenly been replaced with Moriarty's, leering, hurtful; John didn't know what he was doing any more, lost in a mix of anger and confusion, hands beginning to shake.

There was a shout he didn't register, and then he and Anderson were forced apart; John's hands were pried off the man's shirt and they both staggered sideways slightly, off-balance.

"What the _hell _is going on here?"

Lestrade was almost shouting. John could see a bunch of flowers dropped at the end of the hall.

And with that voice the fight went out of him; his vision began to blur with the kind of stinging that came only with imminent tears. He didn't stop them, only sank to the floor with his head in his hands and let them fall down his cheeks and spread across his palms, as if he'd ducked his fingers in seawater. He was aware of Lestrade coming over and bending to look at him, but ignored him, letting everything narrow into one small tunnel of misery that left him weak and tired.

"He was scared," John whispered, but he knew the sound was muffled by his hands, so he pulled them away and wiped his cheeks. Anderson was standing looking disgusted, almost enough to make John go for him a second time. "He was scared and hurting and you just made it worse!" His voice rose to a hoarse shout and he slammed both his fists against the floor. "You made it worse, you bastard!"

Lestrade tried to put a hand on his shoulder but he wrenched out of the way and rose to his feet.

"Sally tried to die for him and he tried to save her, why can't you understand that you stuck-up, idiotic dick? It could just as easily have been him; Sherlock didn't _arrange _it the other way round, they could both have died! And I never told him, I never said, Sherlock, I love you, I never said it!"

His mind was leaping from one subject to another like a frightened rabbit until he realised he was babbling incoherently and let his voice trail off.

Lestrade was breathing heavily. Anderson was standing a little behind him, arms folded protectively across his chest; John had ripped his collar from grabbing onto it so tightly.

"This is unacceptable," the DI said eventually, through gritted teeth. "I _know _this is not a good time for either of you. Anderson, I know you're close to Donovan, and I know you're worried for her but that gives you no right to…to make things worse for a man who was practically on death's door three days ago. If I catch you in Sherlock's room again I'll personally have you banned from the hospital."

Anderson's expression twisted into something that was half-nervous, half-angry, but eventually he nodded. Lestrade turned to John; he could tell the man was thinking back to his interrogation of the man who'd sent the text.

"John, you've obviously run yourself ragged dealing with this, and I know Sherlock is your…" He hesitated. "I know you care for him a great deal. But that is no excuse – you can't go around physically assaulting people, in a hospital of all damn places, you stupid, stupid man. Anderson could press charges for assault." Anderson opened his mouth, but Lestrade waved a hand and he shut it again. "He's not going to, not this time, because the both of you are half out of your minds with worry and he was no doubt incredibly insensitive. I want this forgotten, you understand?"

Anderson looked like he was going to protest, but eventually shrugged his shoulders sullenly. "Fine."

John remained silent until Lestrade raised an eyebrow. He sighed. "Right. Whatever."

Lestrade wiped a hand over his face and pointed towards Sherlock's room. "Go. Get some bloody sleep, if you can, I could balance my coffee cups on the bags under your eyes if I wanted to."

Numbly, John went back into the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock was curled on his side, looking at John over the edge of the mattress with a dull mix of pain and affection, and he reached out a bandaged hand to him. John smiled and clasped Sherlock's fingers loosely as he sat down on his plastic chair.

"Sorry."

Sherlock sniffed. "Anderson always did have an insufferably low IQ. I appreciate you coming to my defence, although perhaps more caution would be prudent in future." He hesitated a few seconds. The heart monitor beeped; John counted the beats. "How is Sally?"

"Sick," John said with a sigh. "She lost a lot of blood. But, with a little time, she should be fine." Sherlock nodded and his eyes slid shut for a second before his head jerked and he opened them again. "Go back to sleep," John murmured, releasing Sherlock's hand and wishing he had the energy to get up. Perhaps he should take Lestrade's advice and have a nap. "I'll be here."

Sherlock reached for him again and touched their fingertips gently together.

"I know."

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**We will be back to Sally soon, I promise! I felt I needed this chapter in somewhere before the story finished, and although I tend to be uneasy about using Anderson as a scapegoat, I think I managed to have blame on both sides here.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	20. The Epilogue

Sally arrived on her first day back at work to find Sherlock already there, limping and wearing a hat – not the deerstalker, although she would have paid for it to be – to cover the part of his head they'd had to shave to fix his stupid, brilliant brain, and still with his fingers strapped together, but acting almost exactly the same as before – as if he owned the bloody place. It was only because she was looking for it that she noticed how close he stayed to John, or perhaps how close John stayed to him.

It was going to be slightly strange between them now, without their custom hurling of insults (although, if he started to be an idiot again she wouldn't hesitate to tell him). He'd actually sent her a bunch of grapes when she'd been in the hospital, and how he'd known seeded were her favourite kind when everyone else hated them god only knew. The cut on her cheek gave a twinge as she smiled at someone who greeted her, the stitches stretching slightly, and the stripes on her back was still sore, but it was good to be at work again. She had long sleeves on the cover the bandage on her wrist; she wasn't sure how much people knew, and didn't want more questions than she could handle. She'd been debriefed at the hospital by a man she didn't know, who'd thanked her – actually thanked her – for 'looking after' Sherlock, and knew Moriarty wouldn't be bothering her, or anyone else, any time soon. The man had looked like he knew what he was doing, and she was convinced that she wouldn't be hearing the childish voice that tended to disturb her dreams again.

She still couldn't listen to a cassette tape.

Other than that…she supposed she was holding up rather well. She'd been jumpy and nervous for the first few days, not to mention extremely tired, but rest had slowly calmed her. She was hardly short on company either – Anderson had visited her a few times, as had Lestrade and her parents. They'd arranged to have a family meal sometime and catch up, and she was glad of it. As for Anderson…well, she'd heard what had gone on between him and John from Lestrade. Watching the two of them fight was something she was almost sorry she'd missed.

It was John who spotted her, tapped Sherlock on the wrist and pointed, and she stood uncertainly by her desk for a couple of seconds, waiting as he turned around and looked at her. A slight hush fell in the room as people stopped what they were doing and watched, all pretending they weren't, but not making great efforts to hide it.

Sherlock gave her a stiff nod, but John rolled his eyes and pushed him forwards. The consulting detective hesitated a couple of seconds, and then walked towards her, coming to a halt about a foot in front of her desk.

"Sally," he said with a slight cough. "I just wanted to say…thank you."

She nodded and smiled a little, then, because she knew he'd never let himself go enough to get much closer, reached forwards and pulled him into a tight hug, whispering in his ear as she did so.

"Thank you." She could imagine eyebrows rising all over the room as she glanced over his shoulder at John, who looked bemused. "Your boyfriend's jealous."

Sherlock pulled away with a half-smile and returned to John, taking his hand very discreetly. Sally winked and slid behind her desk with a soft sigh, adjusting her glasses – she hadn't got her new contacts yet. Sherlock was without glasses, and she wondered if anyone else knew about them.

She took from her bag a flask and unscrewed the cap to pour a stream of fragrant tea into it with a pleasant rushing sound.

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**The End!**

**Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with this to the end and told me what you think; you're all wonderful people who deserve virtual cups of tea and plates of biscuits. This was the longest fanfic I've ever written and it was a long haul but you've all made it lovely! **

**PS - There (probably) will be a bonus chapter at some point in the hopefully not-ridiculously-distant future that deals with Moriarty and Mycroft, but I don't know whether it'll be just tagged onto this or be long enough for its own little piece. Anyway, keep your eyes peeled if you're interested.**

**Thanks again!**


	21. The Bonus Chapter

**Warnings: Hints of torture/violence and a darkish!Mycroft. Not a particularly joyful bonus chapter if you prefer to leave it on the higher note it ended on in the last one.**

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The room was dark – pitch black in fact. The temperature was moderate, so normal that it almost wasn't there. It was narrow, but long, with a single door at the end, which let no light through. It was a rectangle of unknown nothings, and Mycroft Holmes wanted it that way.

He slipped inside quickly, closing the door before Moriarty, tied to a chair at the end of the room, could get a good look at him. The man's knee was infected, wound leaking through the rough bandages, but that didn't bother Mycroft.

He didn't care whether the blood poisoning killed Moriarty, or not.

Steady tapping echoed on the tiled floor as he brushed his umbrella against it – the object reassured him, calmed him, something to cling to. That was why he'd brought it. For comfort.

Moriarty, to his credit, didn't break. Didn't ask who was there, didn't call out, taunt, show fear or weakness. Mycroft stopped about five inches from him – he'd counted it out exactly even before they'd even got Moriarty into custody, so he wouldn't be able to tell exactly where he was standing. He hoped that would unnerve him, but he had to face facts – the man was going to be difficult to alarm.

"You know why you're here."

Silence. Mycroft hadn't expected a reply.

"I would tell you we could do this the easy or the hard way – but to be honest, I'd far rather skip to the hard way. You're not an easy man to break, James."

A slight noise in the darkness, the shifting of rope on skin and chair. Mycroft lifted his umbrella and put the tip exactly a centimetre away from Moriarty's broken kneecap – he'd measured it out. He'd checked everything. He'd _calculated _it.

"I need information about your circle, about your associations, about every single thief and murderer who works for you. You're going to give it to me."

"You're wrong."

Ah. Quiet, not taunting, and not self-assured either.

"I'm never wrong."

"Oh really?" A slight lilt now – of challenge or anticipation?

"You don't know who I am, do you? I'm Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's my little brother." He suddenly dropped the umbrella, letting it clatter onto the floor with a ringing noise far too loud for the soft tones they were speaking in, and threw his weight forwards, placing one hand on each of Moriarty's shoulders, leaning close, chest heaving. It was only afterwards he realised that the move hadn't been planned.

Damn emotions.

"You don't scare me, _Mycroft_."

Mycroft clenched his hands so tightly he thought he might squeeze the bones right out of Moriarty's skin like toothpaste from a tube. "You played a very dangerous game," he murmured. "You pushed two men to the very limits of their restraints – one of them you planned to. One of them was John Watson, and he passed your test. He didn't even kill you when he had the chance, because he's a good man. A very good man. The question is…do you know who the other was?"

Silence. Breathing, slow, restrained. Fear. Mycroft could smell it – his shoulders were still shaking. Because Sherlock was his baby brother and Sherlock had been hurt and it was this man's fault. This was more than the extracting of information; this was revenge.

"The other one was me."

* * *

**Thanks for reading; hope this gave just enough hints as to what Moriarty has coming to him. Reviews welcome!**

**The end! (again)**


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